Secrets and Distortions
by ScarletteQuill
Summary: Sherlock Holmes did not believe in magic and thought the stories of the Fae were elaborate hoaxes. That is, until he came face to face with one of Faerie's most dangerous agents.
1. The catching of a Theif

At the pre-dawn hours when no respectable Londoner would be on the street, the most activity came from two people on a dingy street off Hyde Park. A thin, bitter-looking woman was setting up flowers outside her small shop. Not far away, a meaty man in a moldy greatcoat drunkenly sat on a bench and tried to read a yellowed paper.

Had any casual observer seen the two, they would seem completely unrelated. A more observant eye, however, would notice an unseen exchange. They would catch each other's eye occasionally, each look intense and fraught with meaning. The flower lady's back would stiffen suddenly as if affronted. The old man's brow would wrinkle under his paper from an unheard scolding. The silent conversation continued to weave anticipation into the air as dawn came to the street.

The first true ray of sunlight cut through the fog and illuminated the street. The uneven cobblestones gleamed and the wrought iron sewer grate sparkled with the previous night's dew. Presently, a peculiar grating sound issued from the grate. Black, oily bubbles seethed from the bars and formed a slick puddle near the sidewalk. The puddle began to boil and mold into the form of a lanky man. The man shook off the remaining slime and produced a wooden box from the bag at his side.

Before he could open it, the old man stepped out in front of him, all drunkenness disappearing.

"Subterrus Brackisham," he said in a commanding voice causing the sewer man to look up with a jerk. "The Fae Liaison Office has a warrant for your arrest for burglary, unlawful enchantment of goods, and abuse of shape shifting."

Subterrrus yelped and ran towards the alley beside the flower shop. The lady stood in the alley timidly, blocking his way.

"Just stand aside, marm," he said in thick Cockney. "You've no reason to be afraid."

The woman's head lowered. "No. It is you who should fear," she said, but it was not her voice speaking, but the deeper, smoother sound of a different woman came from the mouth of the wiry crone.

Then the man visibly trembled in terror. He turned to run but the old man blocked him from the front and the terrible woman was advancing from behind. Subterrus screamed and produced a long, thin knife out of the air with a flash of green light.

He made a lunge at the old man, but the woman was quicker. She tripped him and grabbed him by the collar as he fell. She put her own knife to his throat. The early morning sun betrayed the faintest violet sheen in the blade. The thief regarded it with mortal fear, whimpering and letting his box fall to the ground alongside the knife. The man took a short cane from his coat and touched it to Subterrus' forehead.

"By the authority of the Offices set in London in Liaison with the Sovereign government of Faerie, I place you under arrest to await trial." The air around them shuddered, and Subterrus slumped to the ground. The man relaxed and took off his hat.

His face then transformed from a red-faced old man to a smiling boy in his early twenties with dark brown hair and a thin nose. He waved his cane at the unconscious thief. "You, up." Subterrus rose like a sleepwalker and stood beside him. "I'll handle this idiot," he told the woman. "You can take this." He picked up the wooden box from the ground and handed it to her. "You've earned it today."

The woman smiled and turned to go down the alleyway. The man waved his cane again and walked into the flower shop with the sleepwalking thief trailing behind. No trace of the strange altercation remained. A fresh fog rolled in, London began to wake in earnest, and the secrets of the Fae were kept once again.


	2. The Pride of the Fae

As the mid-morning fog lifted in Grovsenor Square, the Fae woman who had walked through it from Hyde Park carrying a wooden box looked completely different from her former appearance. She had dropped her glamour on the way, and now proudly promoted her true identity.

Who was once a gnarled old crone now had the erect spine of an aristocrat, the striding legs of a dancer, and the firm tone of an athlete. What was once wispy gray frizzle was now a thick black cascade drawn into a twist by a single pewter pin. She was a head taller, and strode in fortified self-confidence. Her skin was youthfully smooth, no longer spotted or papery, and a few shades darker than fashionable.

She was in her early twenties, the same age as the smiling young man with whom she had worked. The woman had a proud jaw line and the defined beauty often paired with nobility. The eyes were an exotic violet and harbored steely bite. The mouth was sinuous and full with a twist at the corner that had a habit of becoming a cruel smile.

This woman did not wear the threadbare calico dress the flower lady had worn. She wore a dark brown dress of a practical cut and a clean fit. It barely made a sound as she strode into a respectable-looking house to its drawing room. About half a dozen men wearing expensive suits and worried expressions were lounging anxiously around the room. When the woman entered, all the men rose and showed the respect they believed was due. She rolled her eyes imperceptivity and set her box on a mahogany table.

"Gentlemen," she started firmly, "The thief that has terrorized you and your families was apprehended this morning. As intelligent as he was to evade your police, he did not have the sense to keep his stolen goods other than on his person."

She opened the box, and removed several trays of opulent jewelry that wouldn't have fit in a normal box of that size. She knew the enchanted box would have been sensible if he hadn't gotten caught, but the gentlemen didn't need to know.

"Gentlemen, do you recognize the items set before you?" All the men approached the jewelry with astonished relief on their faces. They assembled themselves in front of their respective trays before answering in the affirmative. When one of the gentlemen reached for an opal brooch, the woman quickly diverted his hand.

"However, all of these items had powerful enchantments placed on them and will have to be taken to the Liaison Office for restoration. Now that they have been claimed, we can deliver them personally to you after we're finished."

The reaction she had expected came. Most looked surprised. A few looked dejected, and some were enraged. "My wife waited three weeks to get back her most precious jewels!" Bellowed a particularly portly gentleman. "These are family heirlooms! I have never seen such slow work. You wouldn't see this in a _real_ British agency!" The woman stiffened. The man picked up the paper he had been reading. "I read about this man, a _human, British_ man, named Sherlock Holmes. He solved a robbery and produced the thief in three days. Now tell me why I trusted your Liaison Office!"

The woman did not answer immediately, but spoke low and dangerous when she did, "I care little about whatever smut you read with your morning coffee, but I wonder how long it would take this human you so ardently praise to wade through the sewers trying to determine which ball of slime is your wife's necklace. And how is he at removing curses? Would you be so gracious to him when the necklace choked your wife at a dinner party?"

The man did not reply, but became very red-faced and sat down.

"You Fae witch," said the oldest gentleman of the group. "You lying, thieving, witch. Just like all Fae, stealing what's rightfully ours. I see your game. You want our valuables for yourself. Just tricking us into giving you our things so you can keep them.

The woman's eyes flashed savagely. "You have no right to speak of thievery sir. When you can speak of the towers of your people built on land swindled from Fae now living in gutters, then we will speak of trickery. We will speak of stealing when you can account for the objects that sit in your countless museums and treasuries at the cost of innocent Fae lives."

Before the woman could continue her impassioned speech, another gentleman walked into the room. He was precise and hale with graying temples and a healthy mustache. Everyone was immediately silent. The other men settled down and some muttered apologies. The woman stood at military attention and at intently watched the man. He was Thaddeus Grimm, Director of the Fae Liaison Office, and his name carried considerable weight even among humans.

"Pardon our walking advertisement for Fae rights, gentlemen. I apologize for the inconvenience," he said lightly. "This is Celeste Lefay, one of my best operatives. Any insult against her is an insult against me." This was said with additional weight, and the older man nervously cleared his throat. Thaddeus turned to Celeste, "Miss Lefay, your job is done here. Thank you."

Celeste nodded curtly, "Yes Sir." She started to leave, but stopped at the door. "Before I go," she said, turning. "This was found on the thief's person with nothing identifying it." She produced an emerald bracelet from her dress pocket and placed it on the table. "If one of you is the rightful owner, now would be the time to claim it. Good day gentlemen."

Celeste quickly exited the room and the house. Thaddeus' cab was waiting at the curb as well as a black coach and a few lower-ranking Liaison Officers.

"Go inside and wait at the door," she commanded. "Thatch will signal you."

The men rushed into the house behind Celeste. She slowly walked to the cab and waited inside. A short time later, the men walked back out. Two of the officers escorted the man Celeste recognized as the one who had reached for the opal brooch. Behind them came another Officer with the wooden box. They all filed in the coach, and it drove off. Thatch came out last, straightening his collar as he got into the cab.

"So I was right. Wasn't I, Thatch?" Celeste asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes Celeste. It was Sir Worthing who hired Brackishire to steal the jewelry. I expect it is he who is responsible for the increased Enchantment fraud. A good idea with the bracelet, I might add." He handed her the emerald bracelet.

"Thank you sir," she said. After taking it, Celeste smiled cruelly to herself. "One more cheating human down."

Thaddeus looked at her. "On that vein, Celeste, it was not part of your assignment to berate the victims of the crime."

* * *

_A/N: One theme I wanted in S&D is that magic does not equal power. Just because someone can pull a rabbit out of a hat, they do not qualify to be prime minister. The power of the Fae Liaison Office is in their connections and HOW they use their magic. Their home is Faerie, not England, even though there is a large population of Fae in the human world. They had a small time of dominance, but humanity did as they always have done. They plowed right through and kept on progressing. So Celeste is slightly exaggerrating when she spoke of the theiving and the 'blood of innocent Fae'. And no, Celeste isn't meant to be very likable for the first few chapters. Believable, yes; likable, not so much._


	3. The Workings of the Office

Thaddeus was still lecturing Celeste as the cab went past Parliament and pulled up at the Office's official building.

"Remind me again the purpose of the Fae Liaison Office Celeste," he asked.

"To bring to justice those who would harm good relations between Faerie and Humanity and to ease the betterment thereof," she recited.

"Don't lose that, Celeste," said Thaddeus. His tone was fatherly and Celeste looked at the pavement. "You are much too good for it."

They entered an expansive Gothic building with gargoyles and masonry that rivaled Westminster nearby. Officers were bustling in and out the four open doorways, but they all stopped and showed some sign of respect when Thaddeus passed. He waved them off with exasperated informality as he and Celeste continued inside.

The interior was a labyrinthine network of arched hallways lit with lamps suspiciously bright for gasworks. Short women with tightly wound hair descended upon Thatch like zealous insects, burying the man in files and round discs of apparently stained glass. Celeste laughed as she took the stack from him and placed it on the desk of some poor clerk.

"You'll return to it," she said when Thatch looked at her disapprovingly.

"I did partner you with my son to keep you both out of trouble. Where in blazes did he go?"

"Tobias volunteered to interrogate Brackishire after we apprehended him."

"Good, we are going to need Brackishire's testimony to convict Worthing in human courts."

At that moment, the young man who had gone inside the flower shop with the thief came bounding up a stairway from some cavernous dungeon waving a colored glass prism triumphantly.

"Speak of the devil," Celeste said as the man strode up to them. Tobias Grimm smiled broadly as he handed his father the prism. Thatch smiled a more mature version of Tobias' smile, and the trio walked to a recess in the wall, which contained an unusual and ornate nickelodeon. Thatch inserted the prism into the coordinating slot and peered into the visor. After giving the hand crank a few turns, he straightened and clapped his son on the back.

"My boy, you could pull secrets from the dead. You've both done exceptional work on this case. I couldn't be prouder if you were my own children."

"I am your own child," noted Tobias, "and Celeste might as well be."

"Perhaps I should adopt Celeste and make it official," Thatch said dryly. He retrieved the prism from the machine and handed it to Tobias. "Toby, get this to Processing for our legal Officers. Celeste, I'm giving you a head start on your paperwork. Don't waste the opportunity."

Celeste rolled her eyes, and the three went their separate ways. Tobias disappeared up another staircase and Thatch went back to find his stack of files. Celeste crossed the flurried atrium to her third-floor office. As she ascended the stairs, a younger boy heavily burdened with papers collided with her as he raced past.

"Hey Oryan!" She called to him. He turned around, a haggard look on his face. "If you drop those file orders Arturius piled on you and do my paperwork, I can get you box seats at the Oberon tomorrow!"

"How on Earth did you…"

"Your _mind_, Oryan," Celeste said. "It is the first and best weapon of every Officer. What does your mind say?"

"Well," the boy started hesitantly, "the file orders have green edges, and I was humming The Magic Flute, which opens at the Oberon tonight. But, Arturius? And how did you know I was going tomorrow?"

"Arturius and his office have the perpetual scent of burnt paper and mothballs," Celeste explained. "The papers in your arms carried that distinctive fragrance to me when you nearly shoved me down the stairway. You also have small holes singed in your sleeve with silver edges. This is a common reaction of Brightening Wax and Atmospheric Ink on fabric. There is probably a mess down some corridor that you and the other junior officers are going to spend the night cleaning. Would I be accurate?"

"You're a marvel Celeste," said the boy as he put the papers in a corner. He bowed in mock reverence, "I am at your service."

"Wonderful. You know where my office is," She started back down the stairs.

"Celeste," the boy called after her, "won't I need…"

"A Memory Glass?" Celeste threw a teardrop-shaped piece of colored glass up the stairs to him. He laughed as he caught it and ran to her office. Celeste was quite pleased with herself as she made her way across the atrium to find a more stimulating activity. Then she felt a familiar pair of eyes staring at the back of her head. She turned to see Thaddeus Grimm frowning at her from the doorway of his office. He motioned for her to come inside. Celeste bounded up the stairway again with several excuses and explanations emerging in her brain.

Apparently she was in trouble.


	4. The Assignment of a Case

Celeste walked into the office with her explanation at the ready, "Thatch, there is nothing wrong with letting a competent Junior Officer like Oryan document images from a Memory drop."

"Let me speak, Celeste," Thatch said, stopping her. "I didn't ask you in here to chastise you about your paperwork. Believe me; I've seen it and would rather you get some lackey to do it."

"Something else must be bothering you about me," said Celeste. She took a seat in the chair in front of Thatch's desk. He sat in a leather wingback behind it.

"Both you and Tobias do extraordinary work on your missions. The two of you are quickly becoming the one of the most successful teams in the Liaison Office, not to mention one of my favorite." Celeste grinned impishly. "That said, I am taking the two of you off street cases."

Celeste's smile disappeared instantly and she bolted out of her seat. "Thatch! How! - Why on Earth are you doing this! You have to admit we haven't gotten in trouble in a while. Bloody HECK, Thatch! What's going on!"

Thaddeus gave her one look, and she immediately sat down timidly. "If you had let me finish, I was going to say that it would be much easier to call you and Tobias up for cases of High Importance if you weren't gallivanting off at the docks or wherever. Also, you are both too important now to lose to some street urchin with a lucky spell."

"So what are we supposed to do in the mean time, Thatch? You know how few and far between those HI cases go. Am I supposed to sit at my desk and over-analyze purchase receipts?"

"You have both been both been put in secondary case rotations outside London. Tobias has been placed in a training rotation in Oxford. You are now in the country rotation."

"Rotations are where agents past their prime go to die out," Celeste muttered. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"No matter what you think, Celeste, I'm not punishing you." Thaddeus touched her hand paternally. "If anything, I'm giving the two of you needed rest. Tobias has gotten more reckless. He's taking unnecessary risks. Teaching the new batch of Junior Officers will simmer him down. And then there's you. I'm worried about you Celeste. You have become more violent and cruel with most every case. It seems like the job is weighing down on you."

Celeste bristled, "Are you saying I'm not up to it? I am one of the most successful Officers on record!"

"But at what cost? I do not doubt your talent Celeste. You have the potential to be one of the best Officers we have, but you still have yet to learn the reasons why we do this. Hopefully this case in Ipswich will teach you some of that."

Celeste's eyes narrowed. "I already have a case?"

"The lady who needed our services asked for you directly. I believe she knows you from school." Thatch handed her a file. "You might remember her as Lela Monteclure, but she's Lady Weatherby now."

"She married a human," Celeste said with a slight mockery in her voice. She skimmed over the file.

"Do keep your cynicism in check while your there. Lady Weatherby's sister recently died under suspicious circumstances. That is what you are going to investigate."

"It says she died of heart failure. Are we investigating improper diet now?"

"Perfectly healthy Fae women in the prime of their life don't die of fright, and Lady Weatherby has reason to believe she is being threatened as well."

Celeste's eyes narrowed. "Do you think there is some kind of Dark Magic going on there?"

"That is what you are being sent to find out, but use discretion. Lord Weatherby is under the assumption you are a visiting school friend. Attend to Lady Weatherby and make sure she's safe."

"So I am to be a body guard as well," Celeste said leaning back in her chair. "Well, ladies don't do much. I can do my investigating at night."

"There's one more thing you need to know, Celeste," said Thatch when Celeste started to leave. "Lord Weatherby has perceived something wrong as well. He has employed the services of a human detective not affiliated with the police." Celeste looked suspiciously at her employer. Thatch lowered his voice, "Have you ever heard of this Sherlock Holmes?"

Celeste stiffened. The image of a red-faced aristocrat yelling at her flickered in her mind. "He's only a human," she said aloofly. "I could solve the problem before he even starts looking in the right direction. Humans should really try not poking their long noses into Fae business."

"Celeste, under no circumstances are you to underestimate this man. I have seen his work, and I know his capabilities. I have even had him watched on occasion, which he then discovered on is own and sent me a very polite note saying it wasn't needed." Celeste looked surprised. "Be careful, Celeste. He has a very proficient mind for a man who doubts the existence of the Fae race."

Celeste snarled and made a very believable impression of an agitated leopard. "You are not going to hurt him Celeste. Unless that man attacks you directly, you are forbidden to him cause him any pain." She pouted. Thatch stood and walked her to the door. "Your train leaves at half past four. Go pack and get prepared."

"See you in a couple weeks, Thatch," Celeste said, waving as she walked down the hallway.

"Celeste!" Thatch called back to her. She turned around. "He doesn't trust women, ever."

Celeste smiled deviously, "I better give him a good reason then. That man will know how to deal with Fae after this."

Thatch smiled as he walked back to his desk. Only when he sat down did he say quietly, "Why do you think I am sending you?"

* * *

  
_A/N: In an observation of large cities, I have found that they are often drawn into pieces (rich/poor, East end/West end, academic/trade, ect.) and a person can live their entire life on one side of the spectrum without ever encountering the culture of the other. In that vein, I sought to halve London between Fae influence and Human influence. This is why Holmes does not believe in the Fae as a magic race. He has never encountered their culture first-hand. In the rigid Victorian culture, public displays of magic are considered impolite (outside certain areas of London's Fae District and entertainment for aristorcrats), and Fae keep their problems to themselves. Fae don't make a habit of asking human assistance, and Fae criminals are handled by the Liaison Office quite quickly. So Baker Street and the Fae District have been kept in distinctly separate spheres, until now, that is._


	5. The Arrival and a Challenge

Celeste emerged from the droll train ride to Ipswitch bristling with pent up energy. She observed the typical English hamlet from the platform like a hawk surveying an open field. Though not necessarily crowded, the town seemed intrinsically bustling and vivacious.

In the late afternoon sun, the half-timbered and brick houses breathed with the collective life of their inhabitants. Ancient trees grew from alleyways and wildflowers sprouted from paths. Mothers bustled between shops, talking pleasantly to each other and toting brown sacks. Children, recently liberated from school, ran wantonly down the street shrieking with laughter. Old men sat on stumps, smoking and muttering.

Celeste laughed inwardly, "Thatch didn't send me on a case; he sent me on a vacation."

A green and black carriage pulled up in front of the station, which Celeste recognized as the one Lady Weatherby would be sending. She walked to the luggage pile and deftly retrieved her two large, heavy bags before some well-meaning porter could obtain them for her. Celeste winked at the porter and walked towards the carriage, leaving him open-mouthed in shock.

The carriage driver was an older man of short stature and friendly features. He tipped his hat to her as she walked up. "Afternoon Miss Lefay. 'Tis a fine day to arrive, I must say. Town looks at her best."

"I would have to agree," said Celeste. "One would hardly see a place this alive in London." The driver winked at her with one of his emerald eyes while the other sparkled a little more than considered natural. Celeste's smile broadened and she relinquished her bags to the man. "What kind of Fae are you?" She asked as they got into the carriage.

"I'm a mongrel myself," he said. "I'm half English Leprechaun, one fourth proper Fae, and one fourth human. Not exactly a fetching pedigree in either Realm, but it gets me a free pint at three different pubs."

Celeste laughed, "I suppose it would." They passed a group of young boys, one of which she noticed had the pointed ears of a Fae. "How is the general Fae population in Ipswitch?"

"Bout the same as the human population I expect. We got enough for a nice little Jinxery. The Wyslea family owns it." They passed a quaint cottage with a sign saying _Jinxery and Magical Supply_. Next to it was a rambling garden bursting with flowers.

In a ring of rocking chairs sat women of differing ages with loose hair and colorful dresses. "That's our local Midwife Circle there. They take care of minor problems. Brownies and grave lights and the like." The driver's voice lowered. "But there's been some dark stuff a-happening round here lately."

Celeste leaned inward. "Like what?"

"It's been happening since around when poor Miss Lillyth passed. There's been strange sounds heard at night out on the fields and woods. Like someone screaming in pain, but not from any natural man at all. Everyone's afraid to go outside town at night." The driver looked Celeste dead in the eye. "Miss Lela hasn't ever mentioned you until this started happening, Miss Lefay. I know why you're here. Be careful."

Celeste grinned, "Seldom am I not."

By then, the carriage was passing through the gates of the Weatherby manor. To the left was the stable and carriage house, to the right were the beginnings of a huge garden, and the massive ancient manor house loomed in the center.

"You need anything round here, Miss Lefay; anything at all," said the driver as he helped Celeste from the carriage. "You ask for Duncan Grange now." He brought her bags down for her.

Celeste fished a coin from her coat pocket. "A penny for your kindness," she said.

He accepted it solemnly and produced a small wooden pendant on a string necklace. "A blessing for your journey. May you keep well and strong despite all against you." Duncan touched the pendant to his lips, then her forehead, then placed the necklace around her neck. Celeste bowed her head in thanks before Duncan climbed back into the carriage and steered it towards the stables.

Celeste turned to face the mansion in time to see Lady Weatherby emerge from inside. Lela Weatherby was as tall as Celeste, but not as strong. She was softer and more ethereal like the typical Fae debutante. She had a long neck, heart-shaped face, and the eyes of a doe. She glided down the steps in a dark gray confection that floated around her frame. Her deep red hair was mounded atop her forehead and was the kind of hair that obeyed her without any assistance whatsoever. Lela clasped Celeste's hands expressively and kissed her cheek. Celeste allowed her old school friend to enter her mind so that she could speak uninhibited.

"I am eternally grateful you are here," came the pervasive whisper. "Find my sister's murderer."

Celeste nodded and smiled slightly. They linked arms and proceeded inside the mansion, leaving the luggage for a servant. The two women passed grand, sweeping rooms to the feminine stronghold of the back parlor. The wallpaper was a floral spray and the drapes were a demure mauve. Lady Weatherby seemed to calm as she and Celeste sat in matching chairs.

"How sure are you that Lillyth's death was a murder?" asked Celeste.

"Lillyth was always such a fragile thing. You remember." Celeste nodded, thinking back to the many times Lela would miss classes to take care of her younger sister. "She got quite sick after we moved to England."

"From Faerie?" Asked Celeste.

"Yes," Answered Lela. "But she had been improving wonderfully. We would take walks together in the garden. She was so happy there. Lillyth would even attend parties. She would always be dancing and flirting. She had even found herself a beau. And then…" Lela whimpered and put her hand to her mouth. Celeste waited patiently while Lela composed herself.

"Then she came home late one night very upset. The next morning she was too weak to leave her bed. Within a week she seemed to just waste away until she was gone."

"Why was Lillyth upset the night before she got sick? How was her demeanor?" Celeste asked.

"She had gone to town to meet with her gentleman friend. I assumed they had a fight. She came in the house, looking like she was crying. She ran straight up to her room without saying anything."

"I wouldn't say anything either," mumbled Celeste under her breath.

"What did you say?" Lady Weatherby looked at Celeste in surprise.

"You wouldn't have the slightest understanding of what it means to retain your identity, especially in the face of a charming male," said Celeste viciously. "Oh you call yourself a Fae. You glide and say all the pretty words. You throw parties on holidays and surround yourself with an appropriate gaggle of half-breeds and misfits, but you know nothing about being a Fae. You don't do any magic unless your all-powerful _human_ husband needs a parlor trick. With your lack of allegiance, I wouldn't be surprised if you suffocated all the magic out of her. You killed your sister, Lela Weatherby."

Anything resembling a proper lady vanished in Lela. She bolted from her chair, "How dare you say such things, you self-righteous viper!" She snarled. "I loved my sister more than anything and I would die for Faerie. Some miserable human with Dark magic killed my sister. Now you go do your job and **find him**!"

She waved her hand emphatically and the chair where Celeste had been sitting flew out from under her. Celeste landed on the floor, then looked up at Lela and smiled. "That is exactly what I've been waiting to hear." Celeste stood and Lela's eyes widened in shock.

Celeste rose, brushed off her skirt, and looked the woman in the eye, "I had to see how angry you would get. If someone is after you as well, they will be hard-pressed to break your spirit if you already posses a spine. But your temper is not so volatile that any attempt at secrecy will be ruined. There are, after all, some uninvited guests to this party. Am I making any sense, Lela?"

Lady Weatherby meekly nodded, looking at her friend like she was a talking salt cellar. "Wonderful," said Celeste, straightening the chair. "Understand, if I stride into this town, surgically attached to your side and asking meddling questions of everyone, we are never going to get anywhere. I will be too suspicious. Invite that usual gaggle of half-breeds and misfits over for the week. They should be women you know well and are each involved in slightly different social areas. They need to be skilled in different areas of magic and know how to procure and keep information. I can't protect you and investigate at the same time, Lela. Your entourage will take care of that. This will also mask my arrival; the town will think it's some nature of party. Are you understanding this?"

"I believe so," said Lela. "You are far more efficient than I had thought."

"I get the job done."

The distinct sound of male voices in the adjacent hallway interrupted the two women. The girls crept to the mauve curtain separating them from the other conversation. With a flash of their eyes, they could see through the thick damask.

There was a wholesome-looking gentleman with sandy hair talking with a tall man who had a nose chiseled from the side of a cliff. Celeste's eyes narrowed. This man had to be Sherlock Holmes. The other she recognized from the papers as Lela's husband. Celeste and Lela listened as Mr. Holmes made an observation that astounded Lord Weatherby. Celeste snorted inwardly. Junior officers could see that prattle.

"What do you know of this greyhound your husband has hired?" Asked Celeste.

Lela shrugged, "He is supposed to be the best investigator known to humans."

"So I keep hearing," said Celeste, irritated. "Look at him, he's a self-glorified narcissist. The way he flaunts his intelligence with that petty deduction, he's clearly commanding respect and asserting dominance. He has to be in control. Not to mention it was an intellectual test. The closer one gets to his stride, the higher they rank in his circle of trust." Her voice suddenly became soft and perilous. "But what would happen if someone were to be one step ahead of him?"

Celeste pulled Lela away from the curtain. "Do not trust this man," she commanded. "Know that, in this investigation, I will always consider your best interests first and take discretion into account. That man," she pointed toward the conversing men in the hall; "does not care whether your secrets are strewn for the world to see or not. He has the eyes of a fox, always looking for some crack in the surface so he can drag out his prey. Do not speak or interact with him unless I am with you or I tell you what to say."

"What if he comes to me?" Asked Lela.

"I will deal with the old greyhound. You worry about keeping safe."

Lela smiled and nodded. "I should start writing those letters of invitation. Do you need to be shown your room?"

Celeste shooed her to a side door, "I'm sure I can find my way."

After Lela had gone, Celeste looked back at the curtain with a cocked eyebrow and a twisted smile. So the alpha male thinks he rules the pack? He better understand what he's dealing with. Celeste strode out into the hallway with her head held high.

The men stopped their conversation and watched her. She did not stop, but gave Sherlock Holmes a sideways glance on her way down the hall. She did not glance at him as a timid, submissive doe. She stared him down as a proud lioness. She was challenging him. Celeste could feel eyes at the back of her head as she continued onward.

The games had begun.


	6. The First Confrontation

Celeste beat the dawn to the moor the next morning. After escaping the house without waking anyone, she went through the garden out to the gray expanse of the moor. She had every intention of losing herself in the melancholic sea of greenish hills and tide pools of fog. The answers would come to her in that oblivion, as they have in the past.

Celeste had found few answers in her room the night before. She had taken the room that had once been combined with Lillyth's room before Lord Weatherby's remodel had split the space in half. There was some minimal evidence of a hidden door in the other room, but she would have to inspect the outside of the house, and that could wait for daylight.

Now was the time to find whatever creature was roaming the moor. Celeste went into a fog-flooded valley, her gleaming eyes seeing through the mist as though it were glass. She saw no dismal beast, but there was a vague path leading into the nearby forest. Celeste followed it.

Footsteps from the top of a hill stopped Celeste just short of the tree line. In one swift movement, she turned and dropped to the ground. She slid her hand silently inside her coat to her favorite knife resting snugly in its holster with its three sisters. Slowly, Celeste looked up to find what had been behind her. In sharp contrast to the brightening sky stood the silhouette of none other than that abhorrent man, Sherlock Holmes.

Celeste cursed mentally. It was impossible for him to have followed her. She had taken extra precaution in not being seen on the grounds, and the fog had been enough cover on the moor. The only other option was that the detective had the same idea as she. The thought alone soured her stomach. Now anything and everything in the woods would hear that long-legged oaf coming.

With a soundless leap and twist, Celeste jumped into the air and changed to her animal form, a raven with a single violet feather. The raven-Celeste flew into the trees and weaved among the branches as she watched the wildlife around her.

All of the smaller birds were nowhere to be found, as if some great fear had driven them away. Only the stoic owls and ruthless hawks, hunters as perilous and predatory as she, remained. Small animals had retreated to the underbrush around their homes, and larger animals were on the defensive.

Some dark threat to their existence had left all the animals wary of the night. They began to venture farther from their refuges as the light grew. Celeste noticed they were mistrustful of the path, meaning a human had recently tread there. Animals don't fear Fae.

Having learned all she could from the local fauna, Celeste doubled back to shadow Mr. Holmes. She perched on a nearby branch. The detective was crouched to the ground, staring fixatedly on the pathway. After a moment or two, Holmes shot up and walked back to another section of path. Celeste recognized the area as the place she had hidden earlier. Her presence had been noticed.

She alighted from her branch and flew deeper into the woods, noting what looked like a ruined property marker in her flight. Celeste flew behind a rather large tree and returned to her true womanly form.

For a moment, Celeste rested and plotted how to best execute her mischief. Then she silently and serenely glided in front of Holmes' line of vision deeper into the mist of the forest. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man stand there for a full three minutes before sprinting into the gloom after her. By then, Celeste had made considerable headway in the opposite direction.

She followed the line from the old marker until it came to the ruins of a wall. The stones were bleached by sun, stained by damp, and nearly covered with moss, but they were nonetheless of value. The past was a bridge to the solutions of the present, and stone had as much a memory as a man. All Celeste needed to do was retrieve it. She placed her hand on the pitted rock and closed her eyes as the history of the wall washed over her.

_It was built by cold, uncaring hands. In its prime, it had been a high, unyielding sign of domination. Metal had crowned its crest and flames had blackened the sides. Many had scrambled over this wall, running from whatever pain that had imprisoned them inside. Blood had been spilt here._

A snapping twig wrenched Celeste from the macabre vision. The detective had found the real path, and he was gaining ground. Annoyed, she once again disappeared into the mist and began to search for anything matching the age of the wall. Further into the woods, Celeste found an ancient, twisted tree. Its gnarled and wretched shape proved the tree's age far more than the height of the proud imposters surrounding it. The tree had been different enough to warrant Celeste's consideration. She grasped for a branch freshly decorated with its summer leaves, and she waited for the more fluid memory of a living thing.

_The tree had grown alone in a cultivated field. It had become stunted and bent within an atmosphere of cruelty and fear. An iron fist had lorded over this land. Riders with drawn weapons rode past in pursuit of terrified game. A man was hung here, a Fae man._

It was a voice that pulled her away this time. The sardonic voice of the detective called Celeste's name into the wooded expanse with the irritation of a boy calling his wayward dog. Gritting her teeth, Celeste strode hard and fast to the open moor. But apparently the bloodhound had some hidden speed within those grasshopper legs, and she could hear him catching up behind her as she climbed a hill. Reaching the end of her patience, Celeste halted, turned on her heel, and glared at the approaching man.

"Mr. Holmes, I am NOT whatever rabid dog you are looking for, I have NEVER worn a size 11 loafer in my life, and it is MY business where I choose to walk in the mornings. So ask me something pertinent, or do your own investigating for a change and quit following me!"

As Celeste expected, every question Sherlock Holmes almost asked was torn from his mouth with such ferocity that he had to retreat a couple steps from the verbal assault. His pride soon repaired and he advanced until they stood toe to toe. He looked down at her from his impossible nose, and she raised an eyebrow. "Miss Lefay," He crossed his arms over his chest. "I do understand you find yourself important with your alleged abilities, but I think it would be a good idea to pack up your crystal ball, go back to your supposed Office, and quit prolonging this family's' pain."

Celeste snarled. The gauntlet had been thrown and both were aiming to kill. The circled like warring dogs and paced like fencers. Each had their eyes intently focused on the other. "So you admit that you deny the existence of an entire race of people, one of which is standing before you?" Her voice was colder than the wind that whipped around their legs and fiercely pulled at their coats.

His answer was equally as fierce. "I believe there is a tribe of people with the natural tendency of illusion and trickery who are bound together by the common delusion of authority"

"Delusion would be a convenient answer for you, considering the uncomfortable alternative." Celeste took a step forward. "Do you feel threatened by us, Mr. Holmes?" She asked.

"Because it is quite important you remain the superior intellect in the general area. You absolutely have to be _the _famous, brilliant Sherlock Holmes at all times; otherwise, you are only that skinny awkward boy who lived in the shadows of his brothers and the shame of his parents."

Holmes hid the pain of her words well. The slightest wince in his eyes betrayed the accuracy of her blow, but he was prepared to return the strike. "It must be such a burden for you to maintain such a wall of hostility. The princess makes a tower for herself so not to be hurt again, safe from an unloving family and the rejection from not being a son."

Celeste lost her breath from the truth of the insult. She laughed mockingly to mask the sting. "Very good Mr. Holmes. You seemed to have observed my personality well. But consider this: what if you've only seen what I allowed you to see?" A fresh bank of fog crept in on their circle. "What if all your deductions have been manipulated by me, and the Celeste Lefay you think you know-"

The fog billowed up and blocked Celeste from Sherlock's view.

"-is only an illusion."

When the fog rolled away, Celeste was nowhere to be found. Only damp earth and tendrils of mist remained where the woman had been standing. Holmes frantically spun around, looking for her, but she was gone.

Girlish laughter wafted from the patio above Holmes' place on the moor. Lady Weatherby glided up to the railing, her lavender dress glimmering in the morning sun. Then Celeste glided to the railing behind her as if nothing had happened.

She had a different dress, different walk, different hair. A completely different _Celeste_ was standing before him. The girls caught sight of the strange man walking on the moor, and they laughed like children at him. Even her laugh had a separate personality from the previous moment.

What on Earth was this woman?


	7. The Introductions and Mishaps

Morning conversations with Lady Weatherby were croquet games compared to the verbal combat with Sherlock Holmes that Celeste had barely survived. The expected talk of the Fae royal family and London gossip gave her time to plan her next meeting with the detective. He had proved to be much more of a challenge than she thought.

The two women took their breakfast on the veranda overlooking the breezy moor. Celeste had her parasol gently resting on her shoulder to shield her from the wind as well as the prying eyes of certain men seated nearby. Holmes and Celeste had not made eye contact since sunrise, and she planned to continue that precedent for the remainder of the day.

It was Lela who first heard the clatter of carriage wheels on the path. "They're here!" She whispered to Celeste before she took her by the arm and dragged her out into the lawn. The green and black carriage just crested the hill with Duncan Grange proudly steering his roan mare.

Duncan halted at the party that had gathered on the lawn and hastened to open the carriage door. The first person out was a matronly woman with a mother's red face and contented bosom. Her hair was curly and had been auburn once. The woman adjusted her dress and curtsied to Lela. She nodded in return.

"Celeste, this is Mrs. Gwendoleth Ponce. Mrs. Ponce, meet Celeste Lefay," said Lela, before adding in Celeste's ear, "She's an excellent spellcaster."

Celeste nodded. It was clear to see that Mrs. Ponce was born a midwife in Faerie. Rather than live a life of confining yet crucial servitude to a wealthy family, many midwives such as Mrs. Ponce emigrated and rose in the social and monetary ranks through exceptional cleverness and determination. Celeste supported Mrs. Ponce's resourcefulness, even if it meant she married a human.

Mr. Ponce exited the carriage after his wife. He was a sturdy gentleman with youthful eyes, a healthy beard, and a balding head. He kissed his wife on the cheek, nodded to the other ladies, and then strode onward to speak with the men.

The next two to come out of the carriage were twin dolls scarcely out of girlhood. They had glassy ultramarine eyes veiled by long lashes. Their chestnut hair was curled and fell to one side. One had hers falling over the right shoulder, the other on the left. The two girls were in constant motion. They wafted and flowed and whispered in each other's ear.

Lela gestured towards the girls, "Meet Eleanorie and Coronette Staunton. Charms and glamours, respectively." The twins curtsied and flitted over to Mrs. Ponce. Celeste laughed inwardly. They were the typical Fae debutantes. The beauties trained and excelled in the most attractive types of magic to be shipped off to Faerie to catch a wealthy husband.

A shrewish woman with a sharp chin and pinched mouth next descended from the carriage. She wore small glasses and her imperiously dark-ish hair was drawn into a severely tight bun. The shrew nodded and smirked at Lela and Celeste. Lela gestured towards her, "Meet Aidelan Donovan, Celeste. Her father was Quinley Donovan, the celebrated potionist."

Ms. Donovan widened her smile. "Pleased to meet you Miss Lefay. You are not known for your social calls. I am surprised."

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Celeste. She liked Aidelan. Her accent and posture proved that she was born in France, not Faerie. Despite the fact she was a talented Fae from an accomplished family, the misfortune of a lackluster pedigree kept her from a successful life in the Other Realm. So she was destined to be the humans' novelty and only respected by the few other immigrants who cared. Celeste could not blame her for her sharpness.

The females sequestered themselves away from the carriage, but there was one passenger left to exit. A young man an official air and an earnest face strode quickly to the group of men. Celeste surreptitiously observed him from behind her parasol. He looked at others like a human but moved like he knew magic. The man was not entirely unattractive and observed others attentively.

"Who's the young officer?" Asked Celeste distantly. Ms. Donovan lifted an eyebrow and the Staunton sisters exchanged little gasps.

"He would be our town bailiff, Andrew Cutcliffe," said Mrs. Ponce. "He is here to see Mr. Holmes. He talked our ears off about him all the way to the Manor."

Celeste watched town bailiff Andrew Cutcliffe stare at Sherlock Holmes with saccharine adoration. Four impatient years of homely felony and now the boy got to see something exciting. There was a certain tragedy in wasted potential.

The rough complaints of Duncan Grange suspended Celeste's pity. "Now where's that scuttle bucket Monty with the bags. Can't trust him with a smidge these days." Grange craned his neck, trying to see farther down the road.

There was first a spirited rattle, followed by the sight of a lanky boy on a buggy full of luggage. An agitated young stallion pulled the buggy, and Monty was having some trouble controlling him. Celeste could have almost timed it. The horse kicked the buggy, sending his driver into the pile of baggage. The harness snapped as the horse took off running and his load came careening after him.

Celeste sprinted forward, even amidst the women's screams and the men's curses. She neatly threw her parasol into a nearby shrub. Her hand sliced the air, and the stallion's reins wrapped tightly around a tree branch. Celeste then turned her attention to the cart. With foreign words and a wave of her hand, Monty was propelled from the cart headfirst into the turf. The bags were wrenched from their place as if Celeste had pulled some great, unyielding thread, and they landed haphazardly on the blank lawn.

But the cart was still speeding toward Celeste with a vengeance. Her audience held their breath, but she only smiled. Moving in a fashion somewhere between ballet and the mysterious combat of the Orient, Celeste knelt to the ground and curved her arms into a cross above her head. The cart glided over her on a dome lined with the shimmering violet film of a soap bubble. The buggy rolled to a creaky stop behind her.

Celeste's attentions were now on the terrified, reeling horse. Again she spoke the odd, exotic language as she grasped the stallion's bridle. Her words flowed into the air, and her voice gradually softened with each phrase, steadying the horse and building a pale violet glow around them. She stroked the horse's mane and placed her forehead on his; by then she was barely whispering. The horse stood still, completely content, and perfectly calm.

The glow receded as Celeste led the now docile young animal back to Grange. A thunder of applause erupted from her audience, but Celeste only blushed and shook her head. Holding out her hand, the parasol flew gracefully back to her on a slight breeze.

"That was a capital show of magic, dear lady," Mr. Ponce called to Celeste.

Ms. Donovan walked beside her. "Did you use the Bordeaux Military Ward or the Promenade?"

"You were always such a show-off," whispered Lela as she took Celeste's arm.

Amidst the approving mass, Celeste noticed a lone figure standing rigid and stern at the back. The one opinion she wanted to confront. She waved off her lieutenants and ambled to Holmes' side.

"Was that genuine enough for you, Mr. Holmes? Or was it still my natural tendency for trickery?" Celeste gave him one long acid look before turning away and lowering her veil once more.


	8. The Spinning of a Web

It was high tea in Ipswitch, and an industrious spider named Celeste Lefay was casting out her web. She stood in her position of prominence at the mantle of the back parlor, commissioning her skirted legion.

She turned to the Staunton twins. "I need the two of you to do what you do best. You are to insert yourselves into the local tangles of gossip and procure the name of Lillyth's former beau. He was not well moneyed or bred, otherwise the family would have known his identity." Celeste looked to Lady Weatherby who solemnly nodded.

"Ms. Donovan," Aidelan stiffened. "I shall need your assistance in examining the local genealogies, both existing and defunct. Whoever once lived next door to the Weatherbys carried a strain of black magic and cruelty. Such hate buried underground makes dark magic more easily accessible."

"And my dearest Gwendoleth," purred Celeste. Mrs. Ponce stopped her chatting to Lela with a squeak. "You will be visiting the local Midwife Circle to understand the exact nature of whatever fell beast hunts each night. It is they who use magic most in the community, and they will understand the breed of supernatural with which we are dealing."

Celeste straightened and stood like a true Officer. Harsher orders were coming, and the group of women tensed in preparation. "Everyone," came her commanding voice. "The life of Lela Weatherby, a daughter of Faerie and your personal friend, is being threatened. I have been charged with protecting her as well has finding the culprit responsible. As I cannot do both simultaneously, you have been commissioned to aid my investigation. Any failure on your part in either objective, and I shall hold you responsible. Lela is not to be alone, save in the privacy of her boudoir. No one is to go out to the moor at night, and no one is to walk alone on the road. Keep as wary of your own safety as well as Lela's."

"And on the subject of the men accompanying us," Celeste set her jaw. "They are not to know anything of our actions. Lord Weatherby has a loving wife grieving over the death of her sister. We are here to comfort her. That greyhound Sherlock Holmes is not to be acknowledged in any form. Avoid him at all costs, even to the point of rudeness. I will keep him at bay. Do not question my methods of investigation or think I am going to give you full disclosure. Am I making myself clear?"

A wave of assenting nods rippled across the room. Celeste smiled approvingly. "I shall expect a report in two days. Thank you for your time." She looked at Lela Weatherby, and they both left the room as the others engaged in less serious conversation.

"Do you have it?" murmured Celeste as they walked through the corridors.

Lela patted the pocket of her dress. "And Harrison has set up the pot in the kitchen as you instructed."

"Well done." Celeste said, still looking forward. They passed into the main kitchen with a bubbling pot of water on a sizzling range. A basket of freshly cut cuckoo flowers(1) lay beside the range. With a nod, Lady Weatherby dismissed her maids from the room and locked the doors behind them. Celeste drew the curtains and retrieved her pewter pin from her hair. She whispered into the vessel and pricked the water's surface with the pin. The bubbles expectantly spiraled inward.

Celeste held out her hand. "Give it to me." Lela took something wrapped in a handkerchief from her pocket. Celeste lifted a jet mourning brooch engraved with a draped cross from the linen square with her pin. "When did you first sense the effects of the curse?"

"Before the wake," said Lela quietly. "I was encouraging a bouquet of lilies to grow as I was dressing, and after I donned the brooch, the roses…" She sighed. "They withered and died."

Celeste gently lowered the jewelry into the boiling water, which by now had acquired a violet tinge. "And has there been any other sign of a threat to your life?" She asked coldly. The water was becoming increasingly murky and dark.

"Last week I was on the outskirts of the garden, near the open moor. It was late afternoon, and I was just finishing cutting a few flowers when I had the distinct impression of being watched. They were no ordinary eyes watching me, but an Evil Eye. I looked around me, expecting the person to be quite near; so intense was the emotion I felt. However, I could see no one in any direction I turned. It was so startling that I dropped the flowers and ran inside the house."

Celeste turned her attention to the cuckoo flowers and began to crush several of the blossoms in her hand. "What was the precise time the incident occurred? And where exactly were you in the garden, especially in relation to the Manor?"

"It happened at sunset. The bell rang for dinner soon after I returned to the house. I was on the west rim of the garden; the house wasn't even visible from that side."

There was now a fine paste of what was once a cluster of flowers in Celeste's hand. "So whoever gave you the Evil Eye was on the western end of the moor. Sunset obviously blinded you from seeing your adversary." With her opposite hand, Celeste took her pin and drew another of the iridescent bubbles over the pot, leaving an open space at its top. In one rapid flourish, she then flung the paste into the pot while pulling the top hole closed.

There was a rending sound, and a smoky, demonic creature rose from the murk and made a sudden attempt to claw its way past the protective field. Lela shrieked slightly and jumped back, but Celeste calmly observed the spirit with an inquisitive eye. The demon finally dissolved into a cloud of smoke after a final fit of sputtering and writhing, and the pot became nothing more than a container for water and jewelry once again. Celeste turned to the startled Lady Weatherby. "Was there ever a time recently this brooch was not in your possession?"

"The clasp broke two days before the wake. I had it repaired by a jewelry dealer in town. His name is Hangley, I believe. But he would never…"

"Let me gather the remaining evidence before we make our assumptions about human character," interrupted Celeste. "Now, I believe Harrison will need the kitchen for making our dinner."

The two women opened the curtains and the doors, letting in the impatient cook and maids. On their return journey to the back parlor, a door opened and a figure separated Celeste from Lela. Lela was able to evade the figure and continue on her way, but Celeste was cornered. She didn't even have to look up to know his identity.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

(_1): /flowers/cuckoo-flower.htm -S&D is set in May during a warm spring. The flowers would have just started to bloom. These are one of the many examples of wildflowers Fae prefer to use in eliminating curses._


	9. The Scolding and What Followed

_A/N: Thank you so much Vi, Pandora, Rambler, and especially bcb for the wonderful and helpful reviews. I hope everyone enjoys this next chapter and will net me know if I am egregiously out of character. ;)_

_And Lord Weatherby might be a bit of a progressive, just to heads up._

* * *

Holmes led Celeste into an empty study with a gentle hand on her shoulder

Holmes led Celeste into an empty study with a gentle hand on her shoulder. His words, however, were less-than-gentle. "I hope your theatrics in the garden this morning have helped to improve your attitude."

She only braced her chin and stared at the opposite wall. The annoyingly sardonic voice continued.

"And if you are going to continue your petulance and spare me of your voice, I must indicate the flaws in your choice of accomplices. The Staunton sisters _will_ become distracted if you leave them unchecked, and do not expect them to be completely quiet about your intentions. Donovan _will_ become resentful if you are not careful to regard her intelligence. Withheld information may the result of such negligence. Mrs. Ponce _will_ try to control the situation and steal Lela's trust. Your rank will not impress her when she holds age in higher esteem. And concerning Lela, if you continue to be aloof and distant from her, she _will_ lose all confidence in you and turn to another. You depend far too much upon others in your investigation, Celeste Lefay."

"Have you finished?" Asked Celeste, her voice devoid of the slightest emotion.

He shifted his weight, and Celeste warily glanced his direction. "I can scarcely begin now," said Holmes, more to himself than her. "Now that everything has changed." His gray eyes met her violet; a slight accusation in his gaze commanded her attention. "Thanks to you."

"Perhaps you should think today an admonition for the future," came Celeste's icy response. With a feral twitch, she freed herself of Holmes' grasp and stormed out of the room.

Celeste could have exsanguinated Sherlock Holmes.

Far too enraged to tolerate any company, Celeste bypassed the parlor and went straight to her room to change for dinner, fuming over her rival the entire way. How that arrogant, contemptuous lamppost of a so-called detective had the presumption to tell her how to do her job must have translated to a death wish. The way he had to lord himself over her and dictate the situation was infuriating enough.

But did he have to be completely right?

Celeste was equally mad at herself from her carelessness. _She _could maintain her mask of ambiguity, but her compatriots had their personalities on full display during her garden exhibition. Every hole in her web that was gnawing the edge of her mind had been ripped open and thrown in her face by the spindly hands of Sherlock Holmes. Celeste would have to work faster and smarter if she wanted to maintain the investigative edge she normally preferred. She would also have to control that violent impulse toward the detective.

--

As Sherlock Holmes followed the other gentlemen into the dining hall, he was pleased to observe Miss Lefay sitting quietly in her seat while the other girls were happily chatting. His reproof that afternoon seemed to have effectively quieted her. For a fraction of a second, she was glaring at him. That haughty face and the half-perpetual snarl on her lips bespoke a thinly controlled temper and a considerable sense of superiority.

With the entrance of the first course, however, the girl pulled her intense nature behind the refined façade. Both Officer and detective devolved into non-entities for most of the meal, allowing the conversation to whorl and eddy around them like the sea around Gibraltar. It was nearing dessert when Mr. Ponce, aided in his confidence by three glasses of port, broke the unintentional truce.

"After this morning and all, I bet you'll be looking at things differently, Mr. Holmes. From what I read in the papers,you are a bit of a skeptic."

Dropping his fork on the untouched trifle with a slight asperity, Holmes paused a moment before answering, "I must confess that, for good or ill, benevolence or destruction, there is far more of the extra-ordinary in this world than when last I found it."

His eyes rested on Celeste as he finished, and where she took those words and secreted them in her opinions, he could not tell.

"Well said, Mr. Holmes," spouted Andrew Cutcliffe. "There is much opportunity for humans to learn in the field of magic."

Assorted Fae eyebrows shot skyward. "That is nonsense," said Ms. Donovan sternly. "It is Fae who are genetically compatible with magic. For a human to attempt such things would be a perversion of nature."

Cutcliffe laughed incredulously. "I would think perversion to be a rather harsh term."

"It is actually the more accurate," Celeste interjected casually. "Historically, if a human obtains unbidden magical power, they have increased chances for madness, malice, and criminality." With the last word she cut a glance at the mysteriously silent Holmes.

"And we are to trust the Fae blindly with the same heightened abilities?" Holmes said, meeting her gaze and holding it. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely, my dear. So do not think that anyone who declares to possess a soul is immune from the communal strain of evil which infects us all."

In lieu of being robbed of any further rebuttal, Celeste merely stared daggers at her opponent. Lady Weatherby furrowed her brow in thought. "Then greed in general would be the problem and not any possession of magic. Wouldn't it?"

"I wouldn't say exactly that, dearest," said Lord Weatherby. "There is a touch of unfairness when the person standing next to you has essentially the same chance at life, but he has powers from which you yourself are barred…"

"You _know _it isn't like that, David!" Interrupted Lady Weatherby with surprising emotion.

"Fine, Lela. That's enough," he snapped back.

A painful silence followed. Most guests pretended to be fascinated with the flatware, and Holmes and Lefay fervently wished to be invisible once more. It was their- no, _her_- penchant for picking fights which had caused a rift in the two people who had given them their trust.

Holmes looked across the table at Miss Lefay. She had reclined slightly, with one hand resting on the table and the other drawn up to her mouth. Her eyes flicking quickly between host and hostess, she pensively gnawed at the joint of her index finger. It was during this observation that Holmes noticed an unheeded warning that could have save him from the entire argument. Within the lace of her sleeve was the design of an animal, aligning with the contours of Celeste's wrist and tracing down the forearm.

It was a rearing adder.


	10. The Questions Asked Too Late

_A/N: A bit of a half-chapter just for the fun of it. I found the concept intruiging. If it slows down the story and should be a one-shot, let me know._

* * *

Wire from Ipswitch to Baker Street:

_Watson:_

_I remember you once spoke of having some experience in Fae culture. I dismissed it as unimportant at the time, but I now need any advice as to dealing with Fae. Any information, especially on the temperament of their women, would be appreciated. _

_Holmes_

_P.S. I would greatly appreciate it if you would not mention this to anybody, ever._

Wire from Baker Street to Ipswitch:

_Holmes:_

_It has been some time since I was around any Fae. Fae women do retain some greater social liberties than their human counterparts, but I can't recall any marked difference in their temperament. It is widely known that one should avoid angering Fae at all costs. _

_Watson_

_P.S. What sort of case is this, Holmes?_


	11. The Leopard in the Garden

The grandfather clock chimed half past one as Sherlock Holmes crept silently passed it and out the terrace door. The beam of his torch projected a sickly yellow circle on the lawn. As Holmes quickly made his way to the rose garden, he remembered smugly how, while a certain serpentine little Fae was being theatrical, he had found a rather important clue.

He found the statue hiding within the enveloping tendrils of the rose vines. Holmes regarded the hunchbacked gargoyle a rather peculiar addition to the sea of crimson flora. Equally as peculiar were the sweeping pair of bat wings that fanned from the monster's shoulders to the damp turf, looking suspiciously like a pair of cellar doors. Holmes tread softly around to inspect the door/wings, careful not to disturb any possible footprints. He found recent scratches on near the opening in the stark rock and a scrap of cloth near the base.

As he carefully felt the stone to find a way inside, a succession of low knocks rapped from the base of the lifeless beast. Holmes recoiled with a jolt, cursing his treacherous heart for nearly exploding in his chest. The knocks continued, gaining the regularity of footsteps. Holmes stepped back in the darkness among the roses as he doused his torch and raised his cane. Human or beast, he would be prepared for whatever came out of that door.

The pounding tattoo came closer and closer until the wait became almost unbearable. Then all sound stopped. Holmes held his breath for almost a minute. The winged doors slowly began to fan open, and a blurred shadow of slipped out. The figure cautiously began to close the doors behind it. Holmes saw his opportunity. With a leap, he shot from the dark and deftly swung his cane towards the person's head.

Only to have that person reach up and catch it. They grappled over the cane, neither gaining an advantage in agility nor strength. The air whistled as the cane suddenly flew from Holmes' hands, and before he could register a familiar whisper, he was soundly kicked in the face.

Flat on his back in the grass, Holmes watched a few clouds uncover the bright half-moon, bringing several observations to light. Firstly, those clouds looked like impending rain. Secondly, the roses by his head were in desperate need of watering. And lastly, his attacker was none other than an extremely aggravated Celeste Lefay.

The woman had thoroughly trounced him like a leopard with an impala, except most leopards, or women for that matter, did not wear scuffed riding boots and trousers. Her hands settled on her hips as she cocked her head to one side, regarding the detective with an expression close to incredulous annoyance. It would have been a comical sight, had Holmes not noticed the knife handle peeking from her coat, or how her hand twitched for it.

She sighed indignantly and walked to his side, kneeling to put her hand at his throat before he could get up. "Mr. Holmes, I understand you have little experience with the Liaison Office or people like myself, so allow me to educate you," She said calmly, though her eyes shot daggers. "You do not want me to be angry with you. At the moment, I am only slightly irritated. Now, as I do not wish to damage your fragile disposition, I am going to stand up, walk away to compose myself, and then I am going to forget this incident ever happened. I suggest you do the same. I am favoring you now for your inexperience, but 

interfere with my investigation _one more time_," Her hand tightened on his throat for half a moment, the strength of her grip like steel. "And you will see just how angry I can get."

Celeste walked away to repair the sorely mistreated braid in her hair, and Sherlock Holmes stood up to repair his sorely mistreated pride. The girl had completely dominated him and shrugged it off as a trifle. Every fiber in his being wanted to retaliate, but Holmes remembered Watson's advice against provoking her further. But there was still a niggling worm of curiosity in need of satisfaction.

"Was it the combat training that caused your parents to disown you?" He asked off handedly.

She turned to him blandly. "Explain yourself."

"The explanation is rather simple. You speak and move like an aristocrat- for the most part-, but you can't seem to afford-"

"-A decent pair of clean boots. I understood what you meant, you buffoon," Celeste snapped back. "When I said 'explain yourself', I meant 'as in relation to your current spatial location at this time'. In other words, why are you here?"

He drew up to his full height and donned his smuggest smile. "This afternoon, I found that hidden door into the manor." He gestured towards the gargoyle. "which apparently escaped your notice." Holmes grinned as she realized her oversight and winced.

"Now to you, I ask the same question."

Celeste raised an eyebrow. "I found the other secret door in Lillyth's former bedroom," His grin disappeared. "which you apparently failed to notice."

Holmes was doing his infinite best to be polite. "But seeing as the outer door leads from the outer garden into the manor, it is the more important clue as to how the murderer entered to poison Lillyth Monteclure."

"If the inner door is situated right in Lillyth's room, it is surely more important to determining the motives of the murderer and which _curse_ he used," She said pointedly.

Now she was just being absurd. "My dear, I fail to see how bad language could cause anyone's death. I can and will prove to you the cause of death was _poison_."

Celeste huffed. "I _can_ and _will _turn you into a rat so you can fit into that nose. It would be breaking the law, but I am extremely well-connected."

That was it. Politeness be damned. "But you are such a delicate creature. You will most likely run cowering from my transfigured form. I've known the most ostentatious of circus stallions to act similarly."



His sparring partner was practically seething. "Delicate creature." She spoke it like a foreign obscenity. "Delicate creature describes butterflies and rare fish. I am powerful. I fear nothing. I am a warrior, and you, O great mind of humanity, are a, a _DERRYN_." The last word she spat out with a snarl.

Holmes remained unfazed. "Some common, folkloric Fae term, I imagine." The sarcasm in his voice could drown a horse.

Her look positively curdled. "Derryn is high Fae for one who is a nuisance, as in rock in my shoe, thorn in my side, YOU in my way. She shoved him to the side for emphasis and stomped to the end of the rose garden.

Wanting no more weighted threats or blows to the face, Holmes wisely went in the opposite direction to retrieve his cane from the rose vines. This was surely his last battle with her. He needed concentration on this case, and yet the leopard had made her own headway. For a brief moment he wondered if the myth of the female ability to focus on multiple tasks simultaneously was true.

"Mr. Ha- um- Sher-… Derryn!" Celeste sputtered harshly.

Holmes was about to ask Celeste if she would kindly insult him in King's English when he caught sight of her expression. She stood woodenly with her arms hanging listless at her side. Her wide eyes stared intently into the wilderness, and her mouth was moving soundlessly, as if it was searching for the word she had forgotten.

Unnerved by the sudden change, Holmes peered into the darkness to find what she had seen to cause such a reaction. Then his mouth went dry and his blood ran cold. A pair of sickly, cavernous eyes glared back at him. They had no pupil, only an opaque glaze of greenish yellow. If death had a designated color, it would be that green. In those eyes were fathomless depths of rot, sickness, and toxic fumes. Holmes tasted bile in the back of his mouth and was nearly sick.

And then Celeste found her word. "Run."

_I dedicate this chap to Vhunter, who has been a wonderful and steadfast reviewer. Thank you for your support and encouragement througought the course of this story!_

_And do let me know if there is anything I can improve upon (dialogue, characterization, ect). I don't usually ask for reviews, but I would hate to clutter this wonderful library with mediocre writing. Thanks!_


	12. The Enemy, the Adversary, & the Apology

With the first flash of lightning, Holmes remembered the proper function of his legs. He careened past the rose garden as rain began to pelt down in suffocating waves. His hair drizzled down into his eyes, further obscuring what should be a path before him. He was now running blindly in the forest during a storm with some unknown terror pursuing him. The night was proving a lively one indeed.

As the thunder died, Holmes heard an atrocious, rending shriek some yards behind him. Deciding that the fastest direction away from the creature was the right direction, Holmes doubled his speed and cursed having set down his torch during the encounter with Miss Lefay.

_Celeste. _He felt as though a knife was plunged through the bottom of his stomach. The detective hadn't cared to notice if she had started running when he did, and now he had no idea where she was. He had all but left her at the mercy of that _thing_ in the dark. Holmes skidded to a stop, nearly falling in the slick mud. He looked behind him to see a dark, feline shadow leap from the ground and sail over his head.

The figure whirled around to face him and grabbed his shirt cuff. "Why on earth are you stopping?" screamed the blur in Celeste's voice. All Holmes could clearly discern of her were her eyes, faintly glowing in the storm light like an animal's in darkness. She yanked at his sleeve violently, and they were running once again.

Adrenaline was pulsing a tribal tattoo between his temples, urging him to run faster as he vainly tried to keep up with the Fae. She was sprinting like a gazelle and leaping as high as ten feet over any obstacles in her way. An inexplicable compulsion to follow her waxed, becoming more pronounced with each passing mud puddle and sheet of rain. Whenever Holmes tried to deviate to an easier or more visible path, an unfamiliar voice of warning would deter him and his feet would intuitively move back to their former track. He suspected it was no mere coincidence the warning voice had a more female tone.

It seemed like hours until they came upon open moor. Lightning eerily illuminated the night in surreal mauves and blues. Celeste slowed only then, hesitantly scanning the horizon as Holmes gratefully caught up. Celeste's eyes at last rested on a desolate heaping of stones halfway across the hills.

She grabbed Holmes' wrist again and pointed towards the heap. "You're safe in that churchyard," She shouted over the thunder. " Get there as fast as you can. I'll distract _it_."

The unholy shriek came from behind again, only closer. Holmes darted across the countryside, willing his legs to move faster than capacity as every muscle already burned from exhaustion. There was a violet flash in his peripheral vision, followed by another screech. He forced his eyes to stay focused on the crumbling chapel that seemed to stay a mile away. Snatches of childhood prayers Holmes presumed evicted from his memory years ago raced across the back of his mind.

After what felt like an eternity, the detective stumbled headlong into the tiny churchyard, then instantly wheeled around and shoved the rusting iron gate shut. Breath came in desparate gasps as he slid to the damp earth. There was a slight tremor from the gate, followed by a rushing noise. Holmes looked up to see Celeste deftly land on a crypt, before casting a wary glance behind him. Immediately rising to his feet and out of the way, he whirled around in time to see smoky blur with dead eyes slam against the gate. The thing writhed against the sudden upshot of holy ground while howling in pain at such a dissonance Holmes' ears nearly imploded. It screeched its dreadful shriek once more before shooting like a comet into the stormy horizon.

Holmes looked back to Celeste standing on the crypt. Lightning flashed, backlighting her victorious smile and impossible eyes. Her eyes showed no fear or uncertainty, but the calm pride akin to that of the triumphant general or the winning fencer. This moment was the culmination of the plan she began to engineer from the moment she spotted hollow eyes in the darkness.

The true nature of Ms. Lefay's character became dauntingly obvious. She was one of those rare women who possessed a soul of steel, cut of the same cloth as Boadicea and Elizabeth I. A man is rare if he perchance meets one in the course of his generation. Holmes now had the dubious honor of coming across two.

The last remnants of the dying storm somewhat anticlimactically dissipated into mist, leaving a canopy of starlight to illuminate the moor. Holmes looked at the moon; noting from its position it barely had been an hour since he had stepped outside. He heard Celeste climb down from the crypt behind him. He drew a deep breath and decided to exhibit some maturity.

"You are accustomed to receiving a degree of respect among your peers, I take it," he said with the slightest softness.

Holmes turned to see her studying him guardedly. "I am accustomed to my intelligence being valued and my opinions considered no matter how my anatomy differed from others."

"Such respect is not easily given with some of us." He sighed and looked at the ground. "Though it can possibly be earned. I do owe you my life, and at the very least I offer my gratitude and an apology."

Celeste regarded the man cautiously for a moment, then shrugged. "Apology accepted," she said as she jutted her hand in front of him like a rich American on holiday.

Holmes stiffly returned the handshake when Celeste suddenly hissed and snapped her hand back. He could see a rivulet of blood slither down her wrist. She removed her glove to reveal a ragged little cut on the heel of her hand. She looked back at the iron gate and groaned.

"This will not heal quickly," she said sourly.

Before either could closer inspect the wound, a low scraping sound came from the interior of the chapel. Holmes drew his revolver near as swiftly as Celeste drew her knife. The rasping of stone on stone continued to crescendo into a jarring crash. Both crept to the rotted door of the chapel.

Out of something halfway between habit and instinct, Holmes gently motioned Celeste behind him as to act as her shield. She indignantly cleared her throat, and the detective turned to see one of his better authoritative glares staring him in the face. With a slight bow, he conceded as Celeste moved ahead and soundlessly wormed through a darkened hole.

Holmes felt his way through the small hole after her. The chapel was exceedingly wet without half its roof to keep out rain, as well as crowded with once prominent sepulchers betrayed by time. He found Celeste crouched behind an upturned pew, silently watching the commotion at a grave nearer the altar.

A small lantern swung haphazardly from a sconce, bathing the interior in undulating yellow light. The thin figure of a man with a rounded back appeared to be kneeling in an open tomb. With some kind of shaft and hammer, the figure was banging his way through the hinges of a coffin while laughing in a wheezy, deflated way reminiscent of old bellows.

A slight noise caused Holmes to look left to see Celeste shift to a more predatory position. Her scowling face portrayed a fearsome Madonna illuminated by the scant lamplight. She looked at him briefly, flashed the ghost of a wink, then leapt into the air to the center aisle. Simultaneously, the lantern's flame burst into blinding white light. The man yelped as nearly smashed on the stone floor and started to run away.

"OI! You get back here, you thief!" Shouted Celeste as she leapt after him. Holmes rose from his position and ran around the outer aisle to head the thief off.

As the Officer and detective came upon him, the gentleman switched to wildly flailing his arms with whatever weapons he had haphazardly wheeling around with them. Twice the air whistled as either a hammer or staff flew inches from Holmes' face. Celeste made a quick lunge for the man's back, but he suddenly turned and swung his arm before she had a chance to recover.

What Sherlock Holmes would always remember about those seconds before the light went out was how unexpectedly _little_ noise the wooden pike made as it speared into the abdomen of Celeste Lefay.


	13. The Price of Secrecy

No matter how scientifically a man has trained his mind, no matter how progressive his views, there are seven or eight acts any noble man cannot witness and not feel a surge of divine rage. Sherlock Holmes had just watched number five. It was almost incomprehensible that the Fae leopard had been felled by such a whimpering weasel, but his senses did not lie.

He saw the shivering shadow slumped on the floor.

_You could have saved her, _whispered the venomous voice of Guilt in his ear.

He heard her ragged gasping and erratic coughing.

_This is Watson's kind of job, _came Guilt's brother, Helplessness from his other ear. _What can you do?_

He smelled the metallic reek of blood overpower all else.

_Which Watson isn't here because he is nursing a sprained ankle and pneumonia from the last case, _chimed in Guilt once again. _Also your fault._

Though it felt like hours, Holmes' torturous inner monologue lasted just long enough for Celeste's attacker to recover from shock. There was a rustle and a stirring of air just right of Holmes' shoulder. With reflexes any Liaison Officer would envy, he snatched the man by his sweaty collar and flung him into a moonlit corner. Holmes had a gun barrel at his head before the man could recover.

"N-no, Please don't shoot," wheezed the thief, waving his hands in the air. "Have mercy on an old man!"

Holmes snarled and stepped forward. "After you showed no mercy to the young woman you just gutted, why should I? However, if you tell me why you looted this particular grave, I _might _extend some leniency."

A smattering of excuses and spit sprayed unhindered from the man's mouth. "Man hired me. Weren't my idea! Gave me quid for the shine, he did. Just don't -Aaahhh!" The old man's eyes widened at a spot three feet behind his interrogator. Holmes turned to see the bloodstained stone where the figure of Celeste Lefay had once been.

"That weren't no woman," mumbled the thief. "An unholy abomination. A witch."

"You're one to talk of unholy," came a feminine voice from the shadows. A shaft, whose previous home had been Celeste's rib cage, swung into the moonlight and smacked the grave robber across the shoulders. A knife fell from the man's sleeve, which Holmes instantly kicked away.

"And I'm not a witch. Mind your manners." Celeste stepped into the circle of moonlight, her face deathly pale and her coat tinted with blood. She kicked the thief onto his back and neatly pointed the sharpened end of the staff at his throat. "Now, who pays you?"

The grave robber only whined pitifully.

"Who pays you!" Shouted Celeste. Holmes heard a hint of desperation in her voice. Then he noticed her measured breathing and the tight fist covering her wound. There wasn't much time. He cocked his revolver.

"HANGLEY!" The man bawled. "Jeweler in town. Please, I don't want to die tonight!"

"You won't even remember tonight," Celeste said softly.

In an instant she wheeled the shaft around and struck the thief in the head with the blunt end. Holmes felt a tiny static shock where a speck of Celeste's blood from the staff landed on his neck. Celeste stepped away from the unconscious robber and leaned on a column, taking slow, shuddering breaths.

"Miss Lefay, you need medical attention immediately," said Holmes, his voice stern.

"No." Celeste put up her hand in protest. "just need time and air." She took something resembling a rosary from her coat and twisted it around her fingers. "If you'll excuse me." She turned her back to him and began to un-tuck her shirt.

Holmes politely busied himself with putting his new pair of hand cuffs on the thief's wrists. Celeste whispered in her language what seemed to be a mixture of prayers and cursing, her head bowed and eyes screwed shut. The rosary-like object she held over her wound. It began to glow slightly.

"You knew he was a grave robber rather quickly," said Celeste, her voice strained.

Holmes looked up from his charge. "His hands gave him away. Splinters from the coffin wood, calluses from the shovel, and the dirt under his nails was a shade darker than the moor's normal soil."

"Added with the over-large pockets for his plunder, it was obvious," Celeste finished.

"Precisely."

The silence that followed was not wholly uncomfortable, only broken by night-birds and a vague wind. Holmes sat on a pew, using the bound thief for a footrest and casting worried glances Celeste's direction. The sound of hooves and rattling wood interrupted the quiet. Celeste looked up from tending her wounds as Holmes strode to a hole in the chapel wall.

"It seems to be Officer Cutcliffe in a dog cart," he said, his voice a fraction more positive.

"What would he be doing here at this hour," Celeste mused, her brow furrowing.

"Most likely taking the last of the drunkards to their respective homes. There are a few small farms nearby, and the path is a shorter deviation to town." Holmes waved out of the hole. The sound of hooves came closer. "Ahh, I see he also has surplus blankets for his inebriated charges. They will be helpful when we get you and our friend here into the…"

"I won't be coming."

"Beg pardon?" Holmes' brow furrowed.

"He can't see me like this."

_Women. _"My dear Miss Lefay, there is dignity and there is foolishness. Now-"

"NO!" She said as forcefully as possible without yelling. But it was the undertone of pleading that gave the detective pause. "I'm not supposed to be here," she said.

Then Holmes finally understood. As much advantage as Miss Lefay gained from her illusion, she was also bound by its limitations. No old school friend of Lady Weatherby's would be racing across the moors in the middle of the night after a killer. To be found thus would expose Celeste's position as an Officer. All would be lost in her investigation if Cutcliffe found her here.

"That does not negate the fact you were seriously injured," said Holmes after a resigned sigh.

Celeste huffed in frustration. "Very well then." She proceeded to yank a silver ring from her middle finger. "Take this. If it starts glowing, I need help. You'll be able to find me."

"Mr. Holmes?" Cutcliffe's voice called from just outside.

Celeste looked pointedly looked at Holmes before he took the ring. He then noisily attempted to drag the concussed thief from the chapel as the incognito Officer slipped into the shadows. Cutcliffe had dismounted from his trap and picked his way through the bracken to the rear entrance.

"Evening Mr. Holmes," he called eagerly. "What brings you here? Have you found a clue?" Cutcliffe looked around the corner at the 'clue' Holmes was hauling. "Blimey."

"Ah yes" Holmes said airily. "I found this gentleman relieving some of the deceased of their material possessions. He was somewhat put out when I tried to dissuade him. I assure you I acted in self-defense."

"I'm certainly glad you did." Cutcliffe smiled restively. "That's Richard Downey. I've been trying to pin him for grave robbing since I started my post."

"You have my congratulations then, Officer Cutcliffe." Holmes said with a wide grin. "All credit for catching Mr. Downey here goes to you.

Cutcliffe whistled, his eyes wide, "Why thank you Mr. Holmes. I, I don't know what to say."

"Then could you kindly help me get our 'friend' into your dog cart while you're deciding?"

"Oh, yes; of course Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock Holmes' anxiety did not lessen after he and the bailiff loaded the still-groggy Downey onto the cart and started down the road. It only increased as they rode further from where he'd last seen Celeste, wounded and desperate. He clutched her ring in his coat pocket, waiting for any sign of distress.

No one could survive an injury like that without great cost, and he could not think of any fool who would continue investigating after such a serious blow. Well, he did remember one. There was the time Holmes ran across London with a concussion and a broken arm.

He searched the moor meticulously for a feral blur darting through the mist, giving only cursory answers to Cutcliffe's idle prattle. They seemed to be the only moving things on the old road, save for the wind-swept trees and an odd crow or two.

After several dozen more expressions of gratitude, the bailiff finally dropped Holmes off outside the Weatherby estate before driving back into town. The detective barely had time to creep back into his room before the servants began to light the fires. There was only an hour or two before dawn, as well as a large quantity of tobacco in need of smoking.

Once safely inside his room, Holmes took Celeste's ring from his pocket & set it on a desk by the window. He sat in the desk chair with his pipe already lit and drew his knees under his chin, watching for the faintest glow from the small pewter circle.

It was a smallish ring, meant for slender fingers. The design combined a mixture between stylized ivy and Celtic knot work, with the insignia of the Fae Liaison Office at the top. The metal was middle-grade, connoting the ring was of standard-issue. Inside the band was an inscription: _January 31, 1881_-obviously the date she was commissioned as an Officer. That was only five years ago meaning she must have risen through ranks with remarkable speed. The topmost leaf had a dent in it; the pattern oddly reminded him of a human tooth. The ring itself had been given a vigorous cleaning lately, though the harsh streaks of excess cleaning fluid hinted that it had not been Celeste's or any jeweler's handiwork; neither would invest so little care in such an object.

The candle illuminating Celeste's ring suddenly sputtered and went out. A crow cawed close to the window, its wings beating against the panes. With an oath, Holmes rose from his seat to retrieve a match. Once the candle was lit again, the ring was gone.

But in its place was a long black feather.

* * *

_A/N: My word this took forever, but I finally finished this chapter, as well as this crazy night. What will dawn bring to light? Stay tuned to find out. As always, feedback & constructive criticism is greatly appreciated._

_I also recently found a Beta. She's a good friend of mine & a kick-arse critic. She is a definate help now, and I'm excited._


	14. The Hunter among the Trappers

After a thorough inventory, Holmes counted at least seven different muscle groups acutely sore from the surreal escapade of last night. Pain had not been his only souvenir, however. The feather that had replaced Miss Lefay's ring he put safely in his breast pocket. Though not a fanciful man, Holmes thought it prudent not to spare precaution when dealing with the unorthodox. And to his simultaneous relief and worry, Unorthodox herself had made no appearance the entire morning.

Holmes paced the length of the library adjacent the back parlor, resolved to at least make sure she still breathed before he went to question the mysterious jeweler Hangley. It had not been the first time that name had surfaced in this investigation, and the last night's findings cast an uneasy glow about the man.

At last he heard the firm sound of self-assured footsteps paired with the rustle of expensive skirts. She was waiting for him when he stepped into the hallway. She was a couple shades paler than usual, her eyes a trifle faded, but that seemed to be the only evidence of her injury. Her expression was self-confident, with no small dose of gloating.

Her twisted smile only accented the inordinate amount of rouge discoloring her face. Her hair was also curled too tightly for her character, and her dress fit far too well for her social station. What _was _she planning for the day?

Celeste wryly grinned when she noticed Holmes raise his eyebrow at her attire. "The way I work is my business, Derryn," she taunted slightly.

Miss Lefay turned to leave, flourishing her right hand in farewell. Holmes' eyes narrowed as her recently recovered Officer's Ring glimmered in the morning sunlight. It cast a dancing spotlight on the bandaged wrist, a small red blot peeking through.

She was almost to the door when Holmes spoke up. "It was the iron, wasn't it?" He asked. Her back stiffened and she turned to face him slowly.

"We are not invincible, Mr. Holmes. Some wounds will heal quicker than others."

She turned on her heel and did not look back until she was safely nestled on the front seat of Duncan Grange's cart as the shrinking vision of Mr. Holmes looked for alternative transportation into town.

Fortunately for Sherlock Holmes, when the act of breathing earns the adoration of the local constabulary, getting to and from town is a relatively simple affair. After getting some discreet directions and some very indiscreet well-wishes from Andrew Cutcliffe, Holmes made his way to the jewelry shop around the corner from the telegraph station.

Celeste was already at the counter and talking to Hangley. He was a genial-enough looking young man, with tousled black hair and a languid smile. He stood at least six inches over Celeste as he showed her a tray of expensive-looking dinner rings.

Miss Lefay was doing such an expert job of attracting Mr. Hangley's full attention that Holmes slipped into the shop and behind a tall casing completely unnoticed. Upon closer inspection, the jeweler had a few more unsettling qualities. His well-groomed hands were constantly grasping at hers, pulling them closer and trying to possess. Every other sentence was a flattering comment that didn't even pretend to be sincere. The man moved like he _knew _women, and far too well.

Celeste laughed demurely at one of Hangley's compliments. He looked at her like a tomcat eyeing a young mouse. Holmes was worried for Miss Lefay, but then he remembered her face wreathed in lightning. The Officer who nearly broke his nose and launched herself at a grave robber last night was only hidden inside the coy thing batting her eyes. The Lothario had not found himself a mouse, but a leopard.

"If it's opals you fancy, I have a fine collection of exquisite estate jewelry in my office," said Hangley with a cavalier grin.

Miss Lefay flushed and bit her lip. "Oh would it cause too much trouble?"

"Certainly not. It would be an act of service to set your eyes alight."

It took a good deal of effort for Holmes not to snort. Celeste's shoulder twitched slightly. She seemed to be having the same problem. Almost instantly afterwards, she girlishly put her hands to her mouth and actually _squealed, _"Oh Mr. Hangley!"

Without warning, Hangley took Celeste's arm and drew her close. "I only speak the truth," he said in a honeyed voice. "And do call me Thornton."

Miss Lefay smiled bashfully at the floor as he led her to the back stairs. "Well, if you insist, Thornton."

It could have been a hand spasm. There might have been an insect on her wrist. She could have been attempting a rude gesture, but the point remained that Celeste had wiggled her hand behind her back, and Holmes got the distinct feeling that anyone outside the building would be oblivious to the actions inside.

Not one to waste an opportunity, Holmes crept up the stairs after Celeste Lefay and Thornton Hangley. The mirror on the stairway landing afforded an excellent view of Hangley's office, and he did not close the door. He wouldn't immediately close it, of course. That would be the final act of dominance to show the mouse she had been caught.

Hangley showed Celeste to a chair and turned to a casing behind his desk. She deviously smiled her crooked grin at his back. The old Celeste was shining through and nearly ready to pounce. She looked away hurriedly when Hangley turned around.

"Now, what horrible thing has left you so cold you must turn to these old jewels?"

"Would you think it would be the same reason Agnes Dover came?" Celeste said lightly. Her eyes turned predatory as she whipped her head around to face him. The jeweler stiffened. "Or perhaps it was the same reason as Mrs. Emmiline Marsh." She rose and walked steadily toward the terrified Hangley. "Or was it Coralline Beldam? Leonora Valentine?"

Celeste had almost backed Hangley into his desk by this time. His shoulders tensed as he tried to loom over her authoritatively. There was a wild look in his eyes. "Now, sweet girl, who told you such foolish things?"

"Get the right tongues wagging and all truths come to light," Celeste purred. Hangley attempted to grasp at Celeste in what might have been the cad's _coup de gras_, but Celeste put a knife just under his chin first.

"Dear woman, whatever the old gossips have been saying are entirely untrue, but if you've a penchant for confrontation…" Hangley started to snake his hands around her waist, but Celeste pointed another knife further south.

"I assure you sir, if _any _appendage approaches me again, it will be cut off without hesitation. " Hangley gulped and his eyes widened. "Ah, you're finally listening. I've heard much about your habits with women. My sources tell me you like them Fae and, in most cases, married. But you are not limited by these specifications, oh no. For the entire month before her death, you have been seen almost exclusively with Lillyth Monteclure, unmarried sister of the Lady Weatherby. I'm sure you've been acquainted; you've fixed and cursed her jewelry."

"You don't know the half of it," Hangley snarled.

Celeste's liquid-smooth blade jerked closer to his throat. "Which is why I'm hoping you'll care to enlighten me. Now, when exactly did you decide to expand from lechery and grave robbing to murder?

Hangley's expression seemed to curdle. "Wa-What? MURDER! There's no way in Hell you're going to pin that on me. I did nothing to the girl!"

"Oh you're calling it nothing now," Celeste purred sweetly. "I wonder what if the husbands of the other women consider it nothing. Shall I trot off and find them to see?"

"NO!" The cad yelped as if he had been burned. "I mean, I stopped seeing her almost a week before she got sick. I even wrote…" He blanched as his interrogator's eyes lit up.

"We have a lust diary, do we? Wonderful. Now you can save yourself time and embarrassment by simply giving it to me."

"Never."

"I take it you're suddenly enjoying my company then. Perhaps we should now discuss how you really obtain all this 'exquisite estate jewelry'. Your compatriot all but confessed everything. I'm sure you wouldn't mind filling in all the little details."

"Fine," snarled Hangley, all pride drained from him. "You win." He proceeded to open a desk drawer and take out a small notebook.

With one knife still against Hangley's neck, Celeste pocketed the other and wrenched the book from his hands.

"It has been an absolute pleasure conversing with you, sir." she grinned like a Cheshire cat as she slowly withdrew her weapon and walked away. "Do stay in town. I dare say I'm not particularly finished with you."

She was almost to the door when the jeweler seemed to regain his confidence. "Is it true? The story about the coldest parts of a witch are her…"

Celeste did not turn around. Her face was an icy mask reflected in Holmes' mirror. "You're close," she said aloofly, just before whirling around and carving a wide arc with her knife. A violet shock wave pulsed from her gesture and hit Hangley squarely in the chest. He was propelled backward over his desk before landing in a groaning heap on the hardwood floor.

Miss Lefay seemed rather satisfied, and Sherlock Holmes had seen quite enough. He hurried down the stairs before her and stealthily crept between the jewelry casings to the door. Remembering to muffle the bell on his way out, Holmes slipped around the corner and awaited the Officer's exit.

He saw her wrap the incriminating journal in her diaphanous wrap before leaving the shop. She had just finished putting it halfway into her bag when Holmes bumped into her on the street. He kept his face turned away and his apology a low mumble. In the momentary confusion, he managed to grasp a firm handful of the book in its gauzy material from Miss Lefay's bag and stride swiftly away.

By the time he passed the fountain in the square, Holmes noticed the laughter, _her _laughter. In a rapid flash of enlightenment, he looked to inspect what was in his new prize. He unrolled the sage green stole to find no book hidden anywhere within its folds. Holmes could have sworn he had gotten the book firmly in his hands.

Looking back, he saw the still laughing Celeste Lefay flourish her empty palms toward him like a melodramatic magician. She grinned devilishly at him before turning down a side street with a swish of her skirts, leaving Sherlock Holmes to throw down the offending scarf with a frustrated snarl.

Despite all its sundry complications, Celeste considered the day as a whole to be a success. By mid-afternoon she had retreated back to the rose garden to read the cad's ledger more privately. Indulging in a playful pat on the gargoyle's head, she leaned on the statue while pilfering through the journal for the desired names and dates.

When she found what she was looking for, it took three seconds until Celeste screamed in rage.


	15. The Lady's Confession

Any extraneous people in the back parlor cleared the room in five seconds from the mere force of Celeste's enraged expression. Lela Weatherby, the main focus of her wrath, sat transfixed on settee, thin lipped and wide eyed.

Celeste heaved a dangerously quiet sigh as she pushed shut the door. "I seem to remember explicitly stating that you be honest with me." She said.

"I don't understand," Lela stammered. Celeste threw Hangley's diary on the tea table, rattling the porcelain.

"Page eight and ninety should refresh you."

Lela grew increasingly short of breath as the continued to read. She looked up. "It was a mistake…"

"You're damn right it was a mistake! _Everything _changes now. I can't be sure I wasn't right originally, and you murdered your sister over a bloody cad. It could be any of those poor women. How on earth am I supposed to trust you now?"

"What must I do?" asked Lela, _sotto_ voice.

"You can start by telling me what happened between you and Thornton Hangley."

She looked about to break. Celeste put her hand on Lady Weatherby's shoulder, firm yet warm. "David is quite engrossed with politics, so he's often away in London."

"And you got lonely," said Celeste with a fraction of her normal spite.

"Not at first. It wasn't until I came across Mr. Hangley that I noticed how often Lord Weatherby is gone."

"Hangley is quite persuasive."

"Then you've seen how he works. Not everyone is an iron maiden like you. He paid attention to me Celeste, made me feel valued. So, we began to see each other. It was all letters, and looks, and purple words. I knew it was wrong, and I hated facing David when he came home."

"You must tell me," said Celeste, kneeling to look in Lady Weatherby's eyes. "How far involved was the affair?"

"No further than a kiss, and then I came to my senses." A tear on her cheek caught the afternoon sun. "He was so angry when I ended it. I was afraid he would tell my husband, but what he did was much worse."

"How early on was Lillyth involved with this business?"

Lady Weatherby looked startled for a second but recovered quickly. "After the first few days. Lillyth would take messages back and forth between us when David was home. And when we saw each other, she would watch to make sure it was safe. After I stopped seeing him, he made her think…" She stopped.

"That you were the one in the wrong. Correct?"

"Yes. He was courting her to spite me. I tried to warn her, but Lillyth would hear none of it. We had an awful row, and she stopped speaking to me. She continued to avoid me until the week she died."

"And what did she say to you then?"

"That she loved me," said Lela, like it was foolish to think of anything else. "And that she was sorry, and I was more than right."

For a snatch of a moment, Celeste looked hollow. "Pardon me then," she whispered. "When you next saw Mr. Hangley after Lillyth's death, what was his disposition?"

"It was like he didn't know me at all. He treated me like some bloody acquaintance with a death in the family. It was infuriating."

"To offer any more sympathy would be to admit further involvement. Hangley cared more about his reputation than her death. Were there any emotional impressions you could feel? Gloating? Disdain?"

"No, if I felt anything from him, he was morose and sulky."

"Interesting," Celeste stood. "I agree with you that Mr. Hangley did not murder your sister, though for very different reasons. Do remember that man has not an ounce of caring in him. Your husband is a far better choice no matter how often he is away, and I have half a mind to tell him just how lucky he is." Lady Weatherby flew from her seat in protest, but the Officer stood still. "However, that is your story to tell and your decision whether to tell him or not. My opinion on this matter should be obvious." The lady sighed and hung her head.

"I know this ordeal has been painful for you, Lela. But you must admit keeping this information from me has made it twice as painful. It would've been better had you told me everything from the start. You're bloody lucky, girl," whispered Celeste. "You're lucky to be dealing with an Officer who knows you, lucky I didn't jump to conclusions, and exceptionally lucky that idiot Sherlock Holmes did not uncover your secrets before I did."

A twig snapped abruptly and Celeste turned to see the parlor window wide open and a blur retreating away from it. Lela went pale as a sheet, and Celeste snarled. Her face was grim as she turned to Lady Weatherby. "Stay here. Admit to nothing."

Celeste sprinted out into the garden, cursing under her breath. The latest set of footprints led her back to the gargoyle, as well as the smug figure now leaning on it.

"Quite an interesting development, wouldn't you say Miss Lefay?" said Mr. Holmes with a smirk.

"Precisely how much did you hear, _Derryn_? Seeing as having part of a story is often more dangerous than no story at all, it would be best just to forget." She reflexively gripped the hilt of her knife to emphasize the point.

Holmes regarded the weapon with a bemused grin. "Calm yourself dear woman. I have no intention of exposing Lady Weatherby. I agree with your opinion and find your advice to the lady admirable."

"What do you want?" asked Celeste suspiciously, after the initial surprise wore off.

"It has come to my attention that if we want our respective investigations to end successfully, we will need to obtain information from the other. I propose we pool together our knowledge."

"An alliance?" came her skeptical reply. "But what information would I ever need of you?"

He stepped towards her. "The coroner's report, the bailiff's criminal files, and everything a man refuses to say in the presence of a woman."

The annoying part was that he was right. Celeste was a forceful interrogator, but she could never breach the wall of mistranslation between the sexes, not here. She sighed and reluctantly agreed with her eyes. Holmes' grin broadened.

"Have you already considered a specific time?" She asked.

"I find the library to have an excellent view of the constellations just before midnight," mused the detective jovially after noticing a yard boy beginning to clip nearby hedges.

Holmes started to walk away but stopped to whisper in her ear. "Don't forget the journal." And then he left her.

Celeste rolled her eyes and looked over to the grotesque gargoyle staring at her. It did nothing to lessen the feeling she'd just made a deal with the devil.


	16. The Witching Hour

Dinner mercifully passed by without incident that night. Having discovered the excellent morsels of information regarding Mr. Hangley, the Staunton twins were relieved of duty and so returned to less relevant gossip. Mrs. Ponce proved to be absolutely no help obtaining data, but instead displayed surprising competence in keeping Lady Weatherby calm and preoccupied. Tonight she suggested celebrating some obscure holiday with a party that Celeste would have to remember to discourage.

So far, the most helpful of Celeste's satellites had been Miss Donavan, who managed to procure genealogies, town histories, and land records from the town archives. Aidelan deposited the stack of ragged ledgers with Celeste just before dinner. She would have to make use of her time before meeting Mr. Holmes by reading them.

Very unladylike words floated through Celeste's mind as she thought about the eminent meeting with the detective. As observant and helpful as Mr. Holmes proved to be, Celeste loathed being bullied into any situation as a rule, and by a _human_ rival even less so. However, she would have to at least attempt at offering pertinent information if she expected the same in return.

Determined to outdo the human in information gained, Celeste lost herself in the borrowed books as soon as dinner concluded. Stretched languidly on the floor, Celeste poured over the various ledgers and genealogies opened around her until the lamp almost sputtered into futility.

The hall clock rang half past eleven, drawing Celeste from her academic trance. She picked up the journal but stared petulantly at the other books. The detective had asked for the journal and nothing more. She would be well within the agreement and the nature of her race to conveniently forget the other information.

But. Annoying word, that. But Mr. Holmes had not said anything to Lord Weatherby regarding what he overheard. Celeste observed them both carefully during dinner. Weatherby was oblivious. The human had… kept his word and acted honorably. Maybe she didn't need to behave so capriciously just yet.

After scooping the books into her arms, Celeste crept silently down the hallway to the library. She slid into the moonlit room and bolted the door behind her. Sherlock Holmes sat on the other side of the room with a match in his hand and a clay pipe in his teeth. The match ignited, its flame a controlled yet zealous brilliance in the darkness before smoldering in the bowl of the pipe.

"I take it Ms. Donovan made herself of use to you?"

"And I take it the Bailiff did not."

Holmes shrugged off his noticed lack of papers or files. "Apparently, this is the first accusation of its kind in Mr. Cutcliffe's records."

"Not entirely surprising."

"I did, however, speak to your Mr. Hangley at his favorite pub not long after you were through with him. Ale is better at loosening tongues than steel it seems." He grinned slightly.

Celeste rolled her eyes. "What did he tell you?"

"That he was delayed by a customer the night of Miss Monteclure's attack. The customer being female in nature, he was delayed for some time, so Hangley sent a friend to meet the poor girl with an excuse for his tardiness."

"The name Crowbeck wasn't mentioned by chance, was it?"

"How often was it in the journal?"

With a sigh, she sat down across the table from Holmes, opening the journal between them. "Hangley consults Crowbeck every time he prepares to pursue a woman. Five times Crowbeck has recommended women to chase. All of them Fae; four of them married. The fifth was Lillyth Monteclure."

Holmes scanned the pages she had indicated. "Every time a destructive decision is made, this Crowbeck character endorses it."

"He nearly enforces it, and always seems to pick a time and situation that would cause the most heartbreak." Celeste leaned back, her eyes far away. "Hangley is a mere tool. Crowbeck wants Fae women to suffer, be humiliated."

"Yet he feels he must humiliate them through a petty philanderer rather than cause scandal himself," said the detective, steepling his long fingers. "He is either in a position that depends on communal trust, or he has a severe dislike for Fae women. Quite possibly both."

"How did _you_ deduce the latter?" Celeste raised an eyebrow.

"Your reaction to Hangley calling you a witch was particularly severe. I take it that is a high insult in your culture?"

"The lowest name one can call a Fae woman."

"Just as I thought. Ignorant men tend to gravitate to one another, so Hangley and Crowbeck have bonded, using the other to justify themselves. Crowbeck may be less demonstrative in his prejudices, but judging by his manipulations, they are possibly more severe. Had I a decent description of him, his routine would be easy to shadow, but none of the other patrons of that pub knew of him." Holmes took a dejected draw on his pipe.

"These won't likely tell us where he is," Celeste said with a twisted smile, setting the genealogies on the table emphatically. "But they will tell us from whence he came. And Hangley as well."

The detective leaned forward keenly at the table as Celeste turned to a yellowed page. "The Weatherbys were not the original landed gentry of Ipswich. The Hangley family had control of this land from shortly after the Norman Invasion until the Civil War. They gained a reputation as ruthless lords and particularly violent to Fae, but lost their title and wealth putting their fate in with the Cavaliers. After the Restoration, your king gave the unoccupied land to a Richard Weatherby, who had aided him. What's left of the Hangleys now live in obscurity north of here, save one philandering jeweler."

"Fascinating history, but what is the association with Crowbeck and the case?"

"Patience Derryn. " She smirked while opening another book. "It just so happens the Hangley's had _major domos _managing their estate and honor for nearly as long as they'd been established. It can't be too difficult to determine which family traditionally filled the position."

Holmes laughed and clapped appreciatively. "_Brava, Maestra_. The Crowbecks have likely carried on enabling and protecting the Hangley family throughout the years."

"As well as perpetuating their prejudices."

"So while the noble line continues to morally degrade, the line of servitude becomes more diabolical. Likely Crowbeck's workings behind Mr. Hangley is merely a rehearsal for larger schemes."

"Lillyth's murder could be considered escalation."

"As well as defending his liege's honor. Miss Monteclure came closest to wedding Hangley. Crowbeck would see it as an abomination."

"How would that explain the threats against Lady Weatherby?"

"Lord Weatherby recently told me of a tract of land he was preparing to buy. Land from one Thornton Hangley. Should Lady Weatherby produce an heir, a Fae will someday own Hangley land, which is equally abhorrent in Crowbeck's eyes."

Celeste sat slowly back in her chair, looking enigmatically pleased. "By the Fyn Derryn, you're not half bad at this game. You've done well with determining motive for murder, now let's see if you can prove yourself with the mechanics."

* * *

_A/N I am incredibly, deeply sorry for not updating in as long a time as it was. School and work ate up my creative energy for most of this past year. Also, this has always been a big, important monster of a chapter looming in my mind. I've spent most of my writing time blocked and intimidated by it. In the end, I've decided to break the Holmes & Celeste all-night study party into two chapters, and the second one, I promise, is coming along soon._


	17. The Breath before Dawn

Holmes retrieved a notebook from his breast pocket at the mention of exploring the clinical side to the case.

"I spoke with the doctor who acted as coroner for Lillyth Monteclure. He had a gleeful interest in the macabre and a thoroughly clinical young apprentice. They were not shy in sharing notes. According to his analysis, there were no signs of any of the common poisons in her system."

Celeste smirked, inclining her head mockingly to receive Holmes' apology. He, however, had a smirk to match.

"Nor were there any hex marks or curse burns found."

That wiped the infernal smile right off her face. The Fae leopard simultaneously swore a blue streak and flapped her hands in the air like a surprised chicken. Holmes laughed and basked in his reward for a moment.

"Quit looking at me that way Derryn. We're both wrong." Her snarl meant business.

One more laugh and he was done. "Cause of death was noted to be a weakening of the blood. She simply wasted away in a week. The only marks on Lillyth's body were three small scratches at the base of her neck." He showed her a sketch the orderly gave him. "There was an ashy residue around the scratch, but the doctor cleaned it off, of course, and thought nothing of it."

Something ignited in Celeste's eyes as she looked at the drawing. "I need a grimoire."

"I beg your pardon?" Asked Holmes while watching Celeste frantically search a bookshelf.

"Rowlwrede's Grimoire. All Fae are supposed to have one. It documents everything that could poison, incapacitate, maim, or kill us. I've seen those marks in that book."

Holmes rose from his seat to help Miss Lefay in her hunt, but before long she strode to the center of the library muttering about 'taking a shortcut.' She spoke a harsh phrase and pointed. Books flew from the shelves of their own accord. Instinctively, Holmes ducked while fairly large tomes circled the library above him. Celeste snatched a particularly ancient one from the air before the remainder of the strange flock returned to their warren.

She opened the book on the table with a firm thud. "Here we are."

Stepping next to her for a better look, Holmes saw a faded illustration of what seemed to be the _thing_ that terrorized them in the storm. Essentially a floating skeleton covered in rags, it had the same dead eyes and an eerie glow from its ribcage.

"A Gaunt," read Celeste, "is physically the body of a wicked man long dead. It is animated by collecting all the residual negative energy from a forsaken place into the body. It is given sentience through an incantation and five hundred tears of broken-hearted women." She paused.

"A rib is taken from the skeleton and a lock put in its place during the ritual, insuring the Gaunt is bound to its master's will. It feeds on the life force of Fae, or humans if so commanded. Without immediate medical attention, the victim of a feeding will die from acute, severe anemia while a victim simply injured will gradually become a Gaunt himself."

"Double bubble toil and trouble," muttered Holmes under his breath.

Celeste jabbed her elbow into his torso emphatically.

"It's an older edition."

"Does the book provide the proverbial silver bullet for vanquishing this beast?" Asked Holmes between coughs.

"A weapon that can be made with ash from the Gaunt's burial ground will kill it if the weapon directly hits the heart. Also, if the Gaunt's burial ground is found and the energy dispersed, the Gaunt will cling to its master, gradually weakening."

"And we'll have our man."

"We? You don't seem the type to work with a partner." She arched an eyebrow.

"I have a flatmate and friend who often accompanies me on cases. He is- ah- incapacitated and could not join me this time. And I don't think this is the first time you've argued theories yourself. Where's your comrade?"

"We were temporarily reassigned to less active duties," said Celeste, rolling her eyes. She made a grab for pencil and paper. "But I think I got the better end of the bargain." Flashing a twisted smile, she dashed out the door into the night.

"You know it's cold out here, woman," grumbled Holmes as he trailed her to the patio.

"Then go get a jacket and don't bother me while I'm working."

Celeste's eyes flicked constantly between the overcast night sky & the paper were she was scribbling. Her brow was firmly set in concentration and her tongue jutted out the side of her mouth.

"Remember that it's a mirror reflection on the clouds when you draw the map. I'd hate go in the opposite direction searching for our target," he offered after watching her for a moment or two.

A sharp pair of eyes met his. "Lucky guess," she mumbled.

"I never guess. Clouds are condensed water vapor, and water is reflective. While I don't have such keen eyesight as you, I can understand the concept."

Celeste just rolled her eyes. "Showoff," she said before turning to go inside. "And there is no 'our'."

"Why ever not?" Holmes asked, closing the door to the library behind them. "We agreed to share information."

"Experiences are not information." She straightened a few rogue books. "I recall eldritch creatures being more my _forte_ than yours. There's no chance of less fantastical enemies, therefore you are not needed. I have no problem telling you of the events, but I won't be babysitting you as I did last night."

Whatever the detective was going to say died on his tongue, and he stood open-mouthed while she smirked at him. "Very well," he finally said, a tad perturbed.

The grandfather clock chimed the hour as the first traces of dawn crawled across the sky. "I assume you have a believable excuse for not accompanying the other ladies today." Holmes tucked his notebook in his breast pocket as Celeste carefully gathered every book she'd brought with her.

"Last night's dinner did not agree with me," she said with a shrug. "How are you going to explain burrowing in the library all night?"

"Few question the whims of an eccentric old busybody." He opened the door for her. "Mind the servants. They start bustling about at this hour, and they gossip like hens."

"You worry too much Derryn. I have my ways of keeping out of sight." And with that, she disappeared into the hallway.

Holmes quietly laughed to himself, thinking of the day ahead. "So do I, Leopard. So do I."


	18. The Hunter Pursued

"Are you quite sure you're not up to dress shopping today?" Asked Mrs. Ponce. She stood in the doorway of the salon with the other women while Celeste played the invalid in the chaise.

"I fear I would make poor company today. Stomach spasms have plagued me since early this morning." She squirmed slightly, clutching her stomach while politely hiding a grimace. The Staunton twins backed away two steps. Mrs. Ponce looked sympathetic.

"Very well, Dearie. You get your rest now." The women turned to leave, but Lela stayed back.

"Consider my home open to you. I've let the servants know you are not to be disturbed," the Lady said with a slight wink. Celeste winked in return before Lela left her alone in the salon.

"Finally." Celeste sighed heavily. She quickly shed her dressing gown before retrieving riding boots, gloves, and a satchel from under the chaise. Suspenders were stretched over her shoulders, and breeches were tucked into the boots. After a cautious look to make sure the back garden was free of witnesses, she vaulted out the window into the flower bed below. Celeste was happy to see Mr. Holmes was nowhere to be found. She didn't expect him to take her advice, but the faster she moved, the less he could catch up.

Following a sprint across the lawn, she slipped in the handily unlocked back door to the stable. Lela was not the only one to wake up to a note under her door. Duncan had fed the sprightly stallion Celeste had calmed earlier & left riding tack near his stall.

"Ready for an adventure, young Macheath?" Purred Celeste while affectionately stroking his muzzle. He whinnied enthusiastically in reply. Smiling, the Fae swiftly saddled and prepared the horse before leading it out to the forest. Both horse and rider eased as they hurtled full speed through the winding trails. Through forgotten lands they rode, using the rough map Celeste made the night previous as a guide. Once they had come to a long-neglected orchard, she slowed her mount.

All birdsong and forest chatter had stilled in the valley, leaving it bathed in silence and sick-yellow light. The orchard trees had long since rebelled from forced garden lines, growing intertwined and through one another with vicious, competitive zeal. Few of the valley's flora had obtained their spring budding, making the orchard appear dead in relation to the surrounding wood.

Dismounting, Celeste reached into her satchel to check her map once again. They were close. She gave the air an experimental sniff. Rain was on its way. Not just rain but a decent sized storm, judging by the electric prickling at the nape of her neck. Macheath pranced nervously, noticing the tension. She sniffed again, this time noticing the acrid smell of ash and decay. She followed the odor to a charred swatch lining the shadow of the valley until it disappeared into the underbrush. The Gaunt had left a trail the last time he'd been released, but it was hard to tell how fresh.

Celeste silently drew her knife as she approached the shadows, careful not to make a sound. There grew a trace of a more bothersome smell in the air. She held her breath and mentally steeled herself before pushing away an overhanging branch.

Sherlock Holmes jumped five feet in the air, and she did not feel guilty at all for laughing at him. "Out for a constitutional, are we, Derryn?"

After dusting off his clothes and clearing his throat, Holmes managed to look down at her with something resembling dignity. "I was not following you."

"Really," She looked at him incredulously.

"It is not following if I get here first."

Celeste recovered from her surprise admirably. "How did you happen to…?" She asked, her voice a mite squeakier than normal.

"You are most emphatic when taking notes." He smiled smirked. "It leaves quite an impression." Sure enough, Holmes showed her a familiar notebook where he had traced the indentations of her map from the previous page. She rolled her eyes.

"Very well. Did you happen to find anything new while you were _not_ following me?"

He knelt beside the Gaunt's grisly trail "The creature does not burn the foliage in its wake, but drains all moisture and increases cellular deterioration. The end result is similar to ash. Judging by the amount of moisture in the soil and rate of decay, these marks were made shortly before dawn this morning. I'm uncertain whether it is only active at night or if it can travel during this…"

Thunder cracked angrily overhead.

"Storm."

It had grown eerily dark during the short time, and the wind was beginning to tug at coattails and hair. Celeste's horse pranced nervously, pulling at his tether.

"You really should consider finding a less skittish mount," Holmes said sympathetically.

With a crack, Macheath broke the branch holding him back just as a sickening, familiar screech rent the air.

"Don't blame the horse." Her voice wavered slightly with her words.

A menacing shadow advanced in from their periphery, prompting both detective and officer to dive in different directions. The valley making a flat run impractical, they chose to weave through the trees and vines with the Gaunt hot on their heels. Celeste rounded a tree and leapt over a low wall only to lose her footing from the vines hidden on the other side. Swearing at her negligence, she attempted to rise only for Sherlock Holmes to knock her down as the Gaunt dove for her.

He leapt between her and the monster, waving his coat as a matador blinds a bull. For a moment, it was confused but regained quickly, grasping the flailing coat in its talons. Then Celeste could only watch in horror as the Gaunt pulled Sherlock Holmes forward and sunk its teeth into his arm.

* * *

A/N: Another one down. Thank goodness. Things should go quicker now that I am completely in love with the BBC Sherlock series. Helps with inspiration. Also, I'm not one who likes begging for reviews, but -honestly- feedback helps.


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